Beer, Bikes and Blood
by dumoimago
Summary: Logan comes across a woman in Seattle who has lost a lover at the hands of Creed. She's angry, wants revenge, and Logan figures he's her best bet at finding that. COMPLETE. "M" mostly for language - and lots of it.
1. Chapter 1

I.

Seattle, 1992 - September

Logan mused over his beer, twisting the chilled glass in his hand, watching the amber liquid coat the sides. He finished off the pint with a large swallow, and barely before he'd set the glass down, John had set another down in its place.

"You doin' good, Logan?"

He grunted in reply, a curt nod. John was friendly enough, at least enough to warrant knowing his name, but Logan felt oddly ill at ease today. This was his third day in Seattle, his second at this pub near Pike, and something like his fifteenth beer today. John, "owner and operator of the establishment" read his business card, had stopped asking if Logan was good to go yesterday around the twentieth pint. Instead, he kept up the steady supply of ale and was happy to see Logan in again on a Monday, since those were the slow days.

Logan started in on the beer, draining a quarter of it with his first drink. It just wasn't satisfying the urge, today. Or yesterday. He had no idea why he had stayed, here in this neighborhood. He'd been through Seattle before, sure. Back when it was first coming up, too, and shit was spewing backwards out of toilets. By now they'd figured out the plumbing problem, and even had some decent roads down around the water. The pub Logan had set up residency at was far enough off the touristy streets to suit his mood, but still close enough to get a good flow of new people coming by along with the regulars. It was mostly small businesses and apartment buildings in this neighborhood. The motel Logan had found was next door, his newer motorcycle, courtesy of Cyke, parked out front.

Logan had been subtly tracking Victor Creed. So subtly, that he sometimes forgot what it was he was doing. On one of his many leaves from Westchester, he'd stumbled across Creed in Georgia. Following the bloody path through Louisiana and Texas, he'd taken a side detour to Vegas, then picked it up again in San Francisco, and finally made his way up to Seattle via a pretty old, pretty cold trail. He felt ready to give up. Sure, Creed was offing someone, sometimes multiple someones, in every town he went through, but as far as Logan could figure, they were sanctioned hits. Not to say that they were any less "murder"-like, but … well, at least Creed wasn't rampaging through the lower fifty killing indiscriminately.

The last of Creeds trail had led him here, to this neighborhood, before he lost it. He'd likely gone to the roof tops, and Logan just felt … tired. He didn't feel like rollin' around on the roofs, trying to track down someone, mostly just to satisfy his curiosity, 'cuz it wasn't like he was out to avenge the earlier hits. Or anything. Anyways. _Shit. I gotta find something to do. I'm half awake as it is._

"You see that?" John was back with another beer. Had he been lost in his thoughts that long? Logan looked up, then across the street at where John was pointing. An apartment building a few buildings down had yellow caution tape strung across its entry way. A couple cops stood nearby, a couple passerby's, but it was mostly empty of the usual mob of onlookers. The cops were in the process of bundling up the tape, the investigation done. From the alley way came an older gentleman, using a hose to wash down the cement of blood. The water ran over the curb and between a couple cars and a motorcycle, an older cruiser, that was park near the entrance. He could smell the blood from here.

Logan hadn't seen any of the hub bub earlier, of what he supposed had been a busy crime scene. _Too much into my beer_, he supposed, _too much into my mind_. "Eh? What happened?" he asked, looking up at Tom.

John chuckled, tucking the serving tray under a flabby arm as he wiped off his hands on the dish rag hanging from his belt. "You focusing too much on my ale there, Logan. Been cops in and out all day. David …. ah," he paused, scratched at his thinning hair, " … I don't remember his last name. David, regular here, he committed suicide last night. Jumped off the roof, side of the building into the alley way."

Logan eyed the four story walk up. "That's not a long drop. Not enough to kill someone."

"You're right," John said, with a quizzical look down at his patron. "Cops said it took him a while, mostly bled out. If anybody had found him earlier, he might've made it. As it was, being dark and all, nobody did. His roommate Terry found him this morning."

"Mmm."

"Yeah, too bad for Terry."

"Guy got a weak stomach?" Logan mused, draining the rest of his glass. _Just a body. A jumper. Not a victim, not somethin' worse, at least. Get over it._

"Nah, Terry's a girl. She had a real fondness for Dave. Though you wouldn't know it from Dave. This is gonna be real hard on her." John gave a perfunctory wipe down of Logans table, scooped up the empty glass, and headed off for a refill.

Logan leaned forward on the table, resting his forearms on the formica, and scratched at his stubble. He watched the opposite street with a mild curiosity as he waited for the next beer. Just as John was coming back, a woman came stumbling out of the apartment doors. She pushed past the policemen, and despite his distance, Logan could hear the cops yelling her.

"Hey! Miss, you okay? Where you goin'?"

She barely paused. "Fuck off."

"Look, you shouldn't leave till the detectives are done questioning you -"

The woman whirled about, leveling her finger and dangling keys at the young cop. "Look, asshole, your fuckin' detectives and their shit-for-brains questions can't do shit, and I'm _done._ Fuck. Off!" She slung a leg over the cruiser in the road, kicked it to life and peeled off away from the cops, away from the pub, her shoulder length, shaggy brown hair flipping in the wind. She went amber and liquid-like for a moment, as John sit another beer down in front of Logan. The cops watched the quickly fading motorcycle helplessly. _Thumbs up their asses_, Logan grunted to himself.

"Ah, there goes Terry. Didn't think she'd be taking it well."

"Mmm."

Logan watched the second cop stomp down to the gutter, and pull up a beat up cruiser helmet. He dusted it off, and headed back up to his partner, muttering about the "crazy bitch being reckless."

"Guess she's headed somewhere to blow off some steam." This, from John again.

"Mmm."

John moved away with a shrug. Logan sat silent for a couple minutes, watching the cops on the stoop. The first cop had the helmet now, eyeing it and twisting it in his hands as if he could give it the talking-down he wanted to give to Terry. "Maybe if she didn't go on and on about that guy, what's she say his name was?"

"Creed?"

"Yeah, Creed. Maybe if she coulda shut up 'bout him, the detective woulda taken her seriously. As it is …. "

Logan was halfway across the street before he realized it. He'd vaulted the patio railing and taken off at a quick jog, ignoring John's cry of surprise from behind him. He skidded to a halt in front of the cops, who paused in their conversation to look down at him.

He opened his mouth to question them about Creed, and then paused. Instead, he pointed at the helmet. "Terry's helmet, she left it behind."

The cop lifted it, staring at it stupidly. "Yeah."

"I know her. I know where she's goin', I can go take it to her. I'm a friend." It all came out in a rush, like he wasn't used to lying. _Just not used to bein' so damn excited for new information. _

The cop squinted uncertainly, peering past Logan at the bar where he'd emerged from. "You sure? You haven't been drinkin' too, have you?"

Shaking his head, Logan gave a salute. "Scouts honor. One beer, that's it. Just figure I'd help Terry out, ya know?"

"Yeah, okay." The cop tossed down the helmet. "Tell her to take it easy on the sauce."

Logan nodded and took off, throwing a thanks over his shoulder as he crossed the street. He vaulted the railing again. John was standing at his table. "Logan, what the hell?"

"Here, John." Logan dug into his pocket to pull out cash. "Terry left this behind. Any idea where I can find 'er? Get it back to 'er?"

John took the proffered cash, nodding. And then shaking his head. "Sorry, man. I don't know Terry that well. She wasn't in here that much - had a problem with starting fights."

Logan stilled. "Fights? Really? Her? I mean, she had a mouth, but …she didn't look like that kinda chick."

"What? Dykeish?" John laughed. "I told you, she had a thing for David. You ask me, I think they kept it on the sly. Who knows why. She had a Napoleon complex, ya know? Short, average lookin' … she'd start anything up, just 'cuz."

_Sounds familiar._ "Well, ya' see her 'fore I do, let her know I got her helmet."

Logan made his way to his bike and jumped on. Taking a tight u-turn, he paused at the apartment building and Terry's parking spot. Inhaling deeply, he grabbed what he could of a scent of her and the bike, and then headed off in her direction. It'd be mostly instincts.

But those had worked just fine, so far.


	2. Chapter 2

II.

He lost her.

He'd been able to follow the trail for a few hours, but it became obvious she was meandering through the city with no real direction. As she began crossing her trail, and then later backtracking, Logan lost the direction of the latest turn, and it was two wrong rights before he realized he didn't have it any more. He did his own meandering through the city, taking random turns dependent on traffic and what he felt like. He let his thoughts go, wandering around without real thought.

Eventually, he gave up. The sun had been down for hours and the wind coming off Puget Sound had turned bitter. He took a turn and headed back for John's pub.

Terry was there. He noticed first her bike, back in its parking space at the apartment building. He parked in front of the pub, and then noticed her, sitting on the patio, her feet up on the railing, hazel eyes on her boots, not really seeing anything. She had her hands stuffed into the pockets of her jacket and was hunched up against the cold, but had left the jacket undone. The dark tee shirt she wore was stained brown in places, and he noticed similar stains on her jeans. Propane heaters hissed nearby, but only a few other drinkers were out in the evening air. They gave her a wide berth. Respect for the still-living.

She hadn't noticed Logan. Annoyed to find her here after searching half the city for her, he tossed the helmet he'd been carrying for several hours into her lap, more roughly than he really should have. More "at" her, than "to" her. She "oof"'d, almost dropping the helmet as she slipped her feet from the railing in surprise and instinct to grab at it. She looked at it, then over at him.

"John mentioned you." She set the helmet on the table next to her half empty beer. "Thanks." She stuck her hands back into her jacket pockets, propped her feet back up, and went back to staring at her feet.

Logan stepped over the railing and sat heavily down in the second chair at the table. He propped his own feet up heavily, next to hers, and looked over at her. She was glaring at him silently, hazel eyes flashing in anger at his brashness. He held her gaze, face impassive.

He could smell Creed on her. It was faint, older, but she'd come into contact with him within the last day or two. He could smell blood, too, from the tee shirt and jeans. Boots, too. _Dave's perhaps, from when she found him this morning._

She was still glaring at him, and now he could see her anger and frustration, and beneath all that, the sadness. Mourning.

John thunked down a pitcher of beer, the same Terry was drinking, and an empty, frosted glass. "On the house." He walked away without another word, avoiding both Logan and Terry's eyes.

Terry whipped her head back to Logan, anger no less abated. "I'm not in the mood for company," she ground out evenly, voice devoid of the anger Logan could plainly see.

He shrugged. "Me neither, honestly." He pulled out a pack of cheap cigars and a matches, lighting one up. As he puffed it into life, he held out the pack to her. She looked at it for a second, hesitated, and then accepted one. She ignored the proffered matches and used her own, pulling them out from her front jeans pocket. She stilled, looking at the matchbook. It was stained red and brown from dried blood that had leaked through. She found a safe match, and then gingerly tucked them back into the same pocket.

Logan watched it all without a word. She lit up the cigar, brought it glowing to life, and relaxed into her chair with the smoothing of neck and of shoulders from someone used to smoking. She breathed deeply, head tilting back, enjoying the cigar.

Logan filled up his beer, then hers, and let the easy silence continue as they enjoyed the ale and the cigars and the night air. The aroma of the cigar hid the blood and fury wafting over from the other side of the table, deadening Logan's smell and easing him into a lull. He filled up their glasses a second time, draining the pitcher, let John replace it with a fresh one, and then finally spoke. "Sorry 'bout Dave."

"David." Sounded like an automatic response. She sighed deeply, eyes still closed. Finally opening them, she nodded, tapping off the end of the cigar on her boot and grinding it down on the sole. Accepted his condolences, but didn't respond.

Logan flicked his butt still burning into the street. "I know Creed," he said, and took another sip of his beer before looking over to her. She had gone completely still, fine tremors running through her arms and legs. He could almost see her eyes vibrating.

Finally she breathed again, and then quietly mumbled, "The police didn't believe me."

"I do. I know Creed, personally."

Now she looked at him, eyes still wide as she processed the information he was giving her. "Are you … like him?" Her eyes flicked quickly to his hands, his mouth, back to his eyes.

_Like him? A killer? A mutant?_ _Lie? The truth? _

Truth. "Yes. And, no."

A barely perceptible clinching of the eyes, and brief worry line in her forehead. Logan relaxed in the chair, attempting to put her at ease and he made himself more comfortable, resting one leg on the other knee. "I'm not the killer he is."

She let the frown creep onto her face, now, and turned, dropping her feet on the ground, elbows on her knees. The loose pose belied the tense muscles. Her foot tapped rapidly but quietly, her leg vibrating with pent up energy. She glowered at him, temper flaring beneath a barely held together facade. She took an angry gulp of beer, almost slamming the glass back down to the table, but she spoke in even tones. "That's not the answer I'm looking for."

He eyed her carefully. Pulled out another cigar, offered it again, but this time she ignored his hand. He unhurriedly put the rest of the cigars back in the inside jacket pocket and lit the one between his lips. "S'pose it's not," he grunted, finally. "I'm not the killer Creed is, in that I don't take hits for money." _Anymore_, left unsaid. "And I don't kill indiscriminately. And I'm not here to kill you."

Some tension went from her shoulders and she finally blinked. She was quiet for a long time, thinking. Then, "Why did he kill David?"

"Probably paid to. Who did Dave work for?"

"David." She sipped her beer, seeming to sink down in her chair and into the liquid, looking utterly defeated all of a sudden. "He did computer stuff. Dunno who for. He didn't like talkin' about it. To me."

He caught the last of that, though she whispered it. She finished off the beer, used the jug to refill it. She didn't fill his. "He … Creed … They knew each other, though."

"Tell me what happened."

"I answered the door. He … " She paused, looking up at him from her slouch. "You said you know him. He's huge. Hairy. Eyes looked black. Sharp teeth, claws … more than human."

Logan didn't speak, let the rest remain unsaid. She watched him, watched for any kind of understanding, and then continued. "He asked for David, but I didn't like him." She paused, like she more to say. The why's behind her instant dislike, but instead skipped over it. "I told him David wasn't in and tried to shut the door."

Her hand flitted unconsciously to her chest, softly gripping the tee shirt fabric above her chest. "He grabbed me, lifted me off the floor, got right in my face. He smelled … like … like death. Dead things. Evil. Worse." She wiped at her own mouth, like trying to get rid of the taste of Creed. "Said his name was Creed and he wasn't fuckin' stupid, and that David better come outta the back office and come talk if he wanted me to continue fuckin' breathing. David came out."

She picked up her beer again, and noticed it was empty. She set it back down carefully. "He acted like he was surprised, and happy, to see Creed. Told me not to worry, he was gonna go grab a beer with him, that they were old friends, and then shut the door in my face."

A long pause. Logan puffed the cigar, calmly waiting.

"I found him when I went out for my smoke this morning. By what the cops said, I don't think Creed waited barely ten fuckin' minutes before pushing him off the roof."

Logan sat with his arms crossed over his chest, chin burrowed down as he mused this information over. Nothing extreme, just a regular hit, by Creed's standards. Who knows what Dave had been doing, and for who. Didn't matter. Logan found himself caring little about the death, but now he had a roof to check out, and a trail to follow. The last three days were suddenly not a waste, but now a useful break in his journey before he took up after Creed again. The circuitous route around the US was likely meaning a trip up to Canada, which he wasn't necessarily against … it'd be kinda nice, actually …

A snore from his drinking buddy opposite the table brought him back into reality and out of his thoughts. Terry's head had fallen back in the seat, slack mouth open and hands loose in her lap. She snorted again, half waking herself up from the drunken, exhausted stupor, before lolling her head to the other side and falling right back into unconsciousness. He supposed it had been a long, draining day for her.

Logan stood, tossing the stub of the cigar into the street with his first one, turned to go and found himself face to face with John. He took a step back in surprise. _Damn cigar._

John peered down at Terry, gave Logan a lift of his eyebrows. "You'll help her home, yeah?" He scooped up the empty pitcher and glasses without waiting for an answer and headed back inside. Logan growled out in frustration, but squared his shoulders and stepped around the chairs to get behind Terry.

He was heading that way anyhow.


	3. Chapter 3

III.

Once in the apartment building, Logan hefted Terry over a shoulder to easier carry her. He'd struggled down the sidewalk with her under an arm, her own slung over his shoulders, trying to make her walk with him. Barely awake, she'd been no help at all, and seemed to get progressively drunker and more out of it. Her mumblings were unintelligible, even to Logan's ears, but they were a mixture anger and disappoinment, rolling from one to the next without break.

She groaned when he flipped her over his shoulder, and he felt her stifle beer that threatened to come up the wrong way.

"Ya throw up on me darlin',l, and I swear I'll pitch you off that roof behind yer boy." Mean, maybe, inconsiderate and even cruel, but he figured she wasn't capable of understanding it at this point.

He followed her latent scent, and what he assumed was Dave's, up to the third floor. At the second door on the right, he ran into Creeds scent. At another strangled sound from his passenger, he dropped her to her feet, keeping her steady with an arm tight around her waist. He fumbled through her jacket for the keys he saw her with earlier, found them in the left pocket, and unlocked the door. He pulled her in, kicking the door shut with a heel, and deposited her on the floor.

"Sweetheart, your place is a mess." There were no dishes, no dirty clothes or anything like that, but it looked thoroughly ransacked. _The police? Or her?_

He yanked the leather jacket off of Terry, forced her boots from her feet, then went in search of the bathroom. It was off a slightly tidier master bedroom, and untouched from who ever had ransacked the rest of the apartment. "Apparently you then, Terry," Logan mused aloud, as he turned on the shower to something slightly warmer than ice. "Tryin' to find the connection between Creed and Dave, huh."

He headed back to the foyer, where Terry was still splayed on the linoleum. Hoisting her up by the shoulders, he got his arm under hers again and dragged her to the bathroom where he deposited her in the tub under the spray.

She made inarticulate noises, eyes snapping open, closed again, open, and then the heels of the hands digging in to her eyes as she groaned. He grabbed her by the back of the head, forcing it under the spray. When she started fighting back with actual strength he released her.

She gagged, spitting out water, wiping at her face. She blinked blearily, peering up at Logan through the spray of water. It took a moment, but he finally saw recognition. She pushed herself to a standing position, and turned off the water. Stared for a second at the faded red and brown mixed in with the water, spiralling down the drain. Snapped herself out of it with a shiver. "Gimme a towel," she grumbled, motioning behind him. He pulled one off the rack and handed it over.

She scrubbed at her face, peering at him carefully. "I'm good. You can leave."

Logan shrugged. "Actually, I wanna check out a few things."

He left the bathroom without explaining further.

The living room was strewn with VHS tapes, records and even a few CD's; shelves bare of the books now piled on the floor. Every single picture that had been hanging or propped up, whether it was Terry, David, them both or other people, had been thrown against a wall and left where it fell. The pull-out couch was half extended, mattress at an awkward angle. There was a near empty whiskey bottle and accompanying glass on the floor, also nearly empty. She'd been drinking all day, as he'd assumed. He didn't bother with anything else in the living room, instead moving on.

Creeds scent went from the front door way straight to a room down a hallway off the kitchen/dining area. It was an office, and it had been as thoroughly ransacked as the living room, if not more. The door had been busted open, hanging listlessly from a broken hinge. A tire iron lay on the floor. _So, not quite all Creed's doing in here, either._

Nearly everything in the room had been searched, thrown and smashed. It was a small office, mostly filled by a large desk against one wall, it's surface supporting a large monitor and various cables for computer equipment. _No main hard drives, or CPU,_ _or whatever you call that shit. Can't do much with just a monitor, that much I know._

Creed had taken it, then. Come in, left with Dave up to the roof, and then back, to steal the computer. Probably part of the hit, part of the instructions from whoever had hired him. Take out Dave. Grab the computer. Get paid.

"It was gone already, when I broke in."

Logan turned at Terry's voice from the doorway. She was leaning against the door jamb, in fresh jeans and a tee shirt. Creeds scent in the room had covered her approach. He raised an eyebrow at her.

"The computer. It was gone by the time I was looking for it. I couldn't find anything else. Nothing that would tell me why." She met his eyes finally, pulling her own up from where she'd been staring at the tire iron."I figure Creed broke in later, after he killed David, and stole it." Her eyes dropped again, and she muttered, "And I didn't even hear him."

"He knows how to move quietly." Logan hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the office window, which led to a fire escape over the alley. "Coulda come in through there, if he wanted."

"Still locked when I broke in. He left the office door locked, but left the front door open, after I'd locked it before bed."

"Doesn't mean he -"

"He ate David's dinner that I left in the fridge."

Furious eyes met his, daring him, challenging him to tell her she was wrong. But she wasn't. She's slept through the murder of David, only two floors up. Then slept through Creed as he broke into the apartment, picked the lock to the office, then took off with the computer. And food.

"He's kinda an asshole."

Her eye twitched.

"Ya know, on top of the whole...being a murderer...thing..." he finished lamely. He coughed into a fist, trying to cover up sudden unease. "I'm gonna go check the roof out. Just, ya know, cuz."

He went to move past her, and she didn't budge from the doorway, furious eyes still on his. He paused, then slowly edged around her, scraping his back along the opposite jamb as he squeezed by. "Sorry, darlin'," he muttered, dropping the eye contact. He stomped out of the apartment in a hurry, and out the open front door.

She was right on his heels.

"I want him."

Logan turned, somewhat surprised. _She's talkin' revenge. 'gainst Creed? Ha!_ His face must have betrayed something. She stepped up nose to nose.

"I'm serious. You're here to kill him, but I want it more than you right now. You find him, you let me know." Her "or else" hung in the air, and it made him frown.

"And don't call me darlin'." She turned away and slammed the door. It locked, loud and clear in the too quiet hallway. Logan grunted, running a hand through his hair. He tried to shrug it off, and following Creeds trail, headed for the stairwell and up to the roof.


	4. Chapter 4

IV.

Logan sat with his feet dangling over the roof of a motorcycle repair shop. The stained awning hid the entrance from view, but he figured it was closed by this time of night. There was a bike club next door, a line of bikes of all makes and sizes on the street in front. The bar was definitely still open. Raucous laughter, beer, whiskey, sweat, piss, drugs, all drifted up to Logan's perch. The club was in full swing.

Creed's trail had led Logan from the roof, down a back staircase, and out front to Terry's bike. There's been a second bike parked here, Logan learned, looking at the space left between Terry's bike and the next car, and the lingering scent left behind. So, he'd gotten on, most likely David's bike and drove through town, twists and turns every which way - Logan was thinking he'd got lost at some point - until winding up at the club and repair shop.

Logan had made his way to the roof to avoid leaving his own trail down below. No need to alert Creed to his presence. The largest Harley of the lot sat smack dab in the middle front of the repair shop, standing apart from the other bikes. From his position up top Logan couldn't be sure the bike was Creeds, was the one he'd stolen, but it was a pretty good assumption.

It was two hours before Creed made his appearance.

Ambling out of the club with a busty blond on his arm, he shouted back to someone inside. "Fuck off, asshole! Deal with ya' t'morrow!" He had a cigarette in his mouth and Logan relaxed a bit. His distance would keep him hidden, and Creed wouldn't be able to smell him with smoke in his nose.

Creed sat down on the bike Logan had pinpointed earlier, and gestured behind him for the blond. "Get on."

She giggled drunkenly, stammering out something about a helmet and safety while running hands up Creeds arm and into his longer ash colored hair. He shrugged her off roughly and caught her around the waist with a hand large enough to span half it. Logan could see the claws digging in, saw the blond freeze and heard her whimper.

"Get on the fuckin' bike," Creed snarled into her face. She complied meekly, struggling atop the beast of a machine, hitching her skirt up past decency. She grabbed the back of Creed's jacket feebly, heels trying to find purchase. "Fuckin' helmet my fuckin' ass. Hold tight, frail, I ain't pickin' ya' up off the goddamn pavement."

Creed kicked the machine to life. Or tried to. He growled, almost a roar, and it took three tries before the bike came to life. He pulled out into the street and roared away, the blond barely hanging on. Logan watched them go and waited another ten minutes before he dropped to the alley way between the two buildings. Brushing the dirt off his jeans, he poked his head around the brick of the buildings. This was as far as he dared, if he was to come back tomorrow to get Creed.

It was much as he expected. A dirty, pretty much hole-in-the-wall bar, filled to bursting with all matter of Angels, whatnots and other riders. The shop was dark, gated front display showcasing motorcycle parts and clothing. Logan was hedging his bet on the shop, due to Creed parking so obviously in front, and the trouble starting the bike. He may be coming back to the bar tomorrow to deal with ..._whatever_... but Logan figured the shop would get a visit, too.

He took one step out in order to see the open time of nine listed on the window, and then ducked back into the alley. He scrambled up the brick wall, using his claws for purchase and what foot holds he could find, to get back to the roof. He began to slowly make his way back to his motorcycle.

Back to the apartment.


	5. Chapter 5

V.

At seven thirty he knocked on Terry's door.

"Come in, Logan."

He pushed the door open, stuck his head in. She was in the kitchen, leaning against the fridge, a large cup of coffee in her hands. "I didn't tell you my name," he muttered, coming the rest of the way in and closing the door a little harshly. Pissed, too, that she was expecting him.

"John did."

She was still wearing the same jeans and tee shirt. She had bed head, fine auburn hair sticking about in a halo, but her face was lined and she didn't look rested. Logan moved into the kitchen, leaning against the counter opposite her. Noticed in passing that the pull out couch had been fully lowered and used, despite her obvious lack of real sleep. She hadn't used the master bedroom. He also noticed the further destruction done to the apartment. She'd taken out some more anger on unfortunate inanimate objects, apparently.

Terry gestured to an empty cup next to the coffee machine, piping hot and freshly brewed. Logan grunted happily and helped himself.

"You didn't sleep," he said, lifting the cup to his nose and inhaling the caffeine.

She ignored his statement completely. "You found him." She sounded somewhat suspicious.

"Yeah."

"Where?"

"Found his bar. He'll be back there today. Thinkin' he'll stop in first at this repair shop next door. Got a bad starter on his Harley."

"And?" she prompted after a few minutes of silence.

"And what?"

"How do we kill him? When?"

_Right to the point. And what the fuck, "we"? _He voiced the last aloud. "What the fuck, you mean 'we'?"

"Fuck you, Logan." All the rage she'd had yesterday was still there, if not more, and she was finding something to throw it at.

He sit the coffee cup down on the counter angrily, coffee sloshing over the rim. "Fuck you, Terry!" he retorted. "You can't do _shit_ to this guy, he-"

She was gripping her cup so hard her knuckles were white. She jammed a finger against his chest and it took Logan most of his willpower to not cut her hand off at the wrist. "Fuck YOU, Logan! I don't give a fuck what this guy is, who he is, what he's done. I don't give a fuck about you. I gave a fuck about David, and Creed took him from me."

She jabbed him again. Logan felt a low warning growl start deep in his chest, and she either ignored it, or didn't hear it. He didn't think she was stupid, but … Her nails were short and blunt, a dirt to them that seemed semi-permanent. Without really thinking about it, Logan processed the visual info and the fact he could smell diesel, grease, metal. _She works with her hands all day. Machines?_

"You left here after what I said and disappear after pokin' around my bike and come back until this morning just to tell me I'm _not_ part of this?"

_The fuck? She was spying on me?_

"I know you found him. And you didn't _take_ the fucker. You waited, and now you're here, and you better fuckin' _believe_ that I'm in on this. If not with you, then on my own, goddammit."

She jabbed him again, the hardest yet. Logan snapped his arm up, grasping her wrist with a hand. She jerked with the force, bending so her wrist didn't snap at the angle he held it. She gasped in quick pain, but she planted her feet, held tight to her coffee, and stared him down.

"Listen good, darlin'," Logan growled out, voice low. "I can let you in on this, let you tag along if you ain't gonna take my advice and get the fuck over it, but there is no chance in hell yer goin' this alone. It may be personal between you and Creed, but you ain't got shit on what he's done to me. He's _mine_."

Against maybe his better judgement, his claws _snikt'_ed out on the hand holding her. Her eyes widened, his lips pulled back in snarl, and then there was blinding pain across his face and eyes. It felt like his eyes were trying to crawl out of his head.

She'd thrown her coffee in his face.

He roared in agony, heels of his hands pressing to his eye sockets as if to stem the pain. He shook his head of the dripping, burning liquid and opened his eyes. She was at the door.

His vision was blurry, scarred, but healing. She turned from the door, reaching for something, _keys?_, on the counter, thinking quickly on her feet and knowing she'd need something faster than just her feet to put distance between them. He launched himself at her, grabbing her by her shirt collar, using the hand with claws still sheathed, and bodily hauled her to the side and slammed her back into the door. He pushed and lifted, clearing her feet of the floor and keeping her pressed against the wood. She was scratching at his hand, drawing blood and leaving marks that instantly healed, screaming down the length of his arm at him as he screamed up at her.

"YOU'RE JUST LIKE HIM!"

"STOP!" He shook her a bit, thumped her back against the door a little bit more. "_STOP!"_

And she did, she froze, eyes so full of hate and rage and vehemence. "You're just like him," she spat out, struggling a bit against the pressure on her chest from his fist to do so.

He dropped her and stepped back. He relaxed the fist at his side, sheathed the bared set of claws. Spread open empty hands, palms to her, and struggled to control his breathing. She was coming into focus now, his eyes nearly healed. He felt burns on his forehead smoothing, receding. "I'm not. I'm not like him."

She'd dropped to her knees, clutching at her chest and drawing ragged breaths as she glared up at him. "He's got claws, you've got," she gestured uselessly at his hands, "...arm knives, I don't know, WHAT THE FUCK."

She stood up, using the door handle to haul herself to unsteady feet. "And look at your fuckin' _face_," she cried, pointing. "You're _healing_. Can Creed do that? _Shit!_"

Logan stepped back, giving her room. He felt his anger abating in the heat of hers. He drew a deep breath, eyes flitting closed, mentally brought up his training, his teaching, _focus focus focus_. _Don't lose it, control it, focus._

"Look, darlin'-"

"Stop callin' me DARLIN'!"

Deep breath. _Try again_. "Look, Terry, I'm not like him. We're … similar." She gave a snorting, doubtful laugh. He opened his eyes, glaring. "We're similar, alright? He's got his claws, I got my … arm knives. Yeah, we heal. Fast. But I don't kill for money. I'm not an assassin. I try and _stop_ people like him. I've _been_ tryin' to stop him. For _years_."

She quieted down now, listening, watching him. She was still so full of anger though, and suspicion. It was in waves, assaulting him in its passion and force. A rage that called out to his own.

"He's killed friends of mine. He's threatened them all. He's massacred whole groups of people. He -" his voice caught. _Fuck_. "He killed a woman I loved. Raped and tortured and murdered her, and wrote Happy Birthday on the wall of our cabin in her blood. That was just one woman that ..." He trailed off.

Not in pity, but with skeptical disbelief, her eyes scrunched up. "What?"

"This is very personal, Terry," he said, in barely a whisper. He sat down heavily in a chair at the table, where he'd unknowingly backed up to. He wiped away the last of the coffee on his face, felt the last of the burns heal. "You think I could get s'more coffee? ...in a cup, preferably?"

He grinned at her, trying to diffuse the situation, but she didn't return it. Didn't lighten up. If anything, she glowered more darkly. She stood at the door, gaining control of her breath, her heart beat, her rage, and he watched as she assessed the situation and her choices. Her eyes flicked to her keys, the door, to the phone, to the coffee pot, and back to him.

Silently, she moved to the kitchen. He closed his eyes and rested his head back. He could hear her kick the remains of the broken coffee cup to the side, and then pour two fresh cups. She carried it over to the table, thunked it down in front of him, and then sat down herself. She'd tracked coffee onto the carpet. Didn't care.

"Fine. It's personal between you two as well. Then let's do this together."

He only hesitated for a moment. "Okay."


	6. Chapter 6

VI.

"'Get the fuck over it' he says. Fuckin' prick."

She was muttering under her breath in the next room but he could hear her clear as day. He let her mumble for a few more moments, still relaxing with his coffee, before finally interrupting her. "'Sides that whole healing factor, darlin'? I can hear pretty well, too."

There was silence, and then in a more casual volume, "Well fuck you very much." She came out of the bathroom. "You may hear, you don't fuckin' listen. Stop callin' me darlin'." She sat back down at the table. "So how extensive is this healing factor?" she asked. "Can I shoot him? That hurt?"

"Everything hurts. It just heals. Everything does, given enough time."

"Drowning?"

"We can't."

"Push you off a roof?"

"Me?"

"You know what I mean."

"No, won't work. Broken bones, punctured lungs, gun shots to the head, it all heals. I've clawed him to pieces, run him over, stabbed him through the skull." Logan suddenly paused. "I dunno how kosher I am with tellin' you all this, Terry."

Not that her anger had ever dissipated, but it was immediately over powering again. "Who the fuck am I going to tell?"

"The police. Friends. Family."

"The police didn't believe word one about Creed. And I didn't know half the shit I know now."

"Friends."

"Got none."

"Family."

"Fuck off." She stood up and went into the living room, kicked around a few of the books from the pile near the case, then bent and retrieved a heavy phone book. She slapped it open on the counter near the wall phone. "What was the name of that repair shop?"

"Why?"

"I know most of 'em around here. I can talk to whoever it is there, confirm what you said about Creed bringin' my bike in."

"_Your_ bike?"

"Davids," she corrected herself. "His is missing from out front."

He told her the repair shop and watched as she looked it up and dialed. She checked the time as an answering machine clicked on. Barely eight thirty.

"Paul, it's Terry. Need to talk to you about a Harley that should be in for repair today. Guy named Creed. Call me."

"What'cha do? Fix bikes? Cars?" Logan asked as she hung up.

"Fuck off."

"Geez, sweetheart. I was tellin' you personal shit not five minutes ago."

"Doesn't mean I gotta return the favor. And don't call me sweetheart." She picked up the phone again, having found another number in the phone book, and again left another message. "Nick, this is Terry, from Diamond Dogs. Heard a rumor you might have had a Mr. Creed in there last night. Big guy, big bike, Paulie's fixin' it up next door. I need to talk to you, if you'd call back when you're open." She left her number and hung up. Hands flat on the counter she stared down at the phone book as if it'd give her the answers she was trying to find.

Logan let her stew. _Small community, I guess. She's knows people. _Helped himself to a third cup of coffee, _or is it two and half?_, and then retook his seat. "You got anger issues?" he asked after a moment of watching her fume.

She slammed the book shut, rounding on Logan. She opened her mouth in an angry retort, and then seemed to think better of it. The anger didn't go anywhere, it was like a thick wall surrounding her, and Logan watched the emotions play across her face as she struggled to stay civil. She wanted that berserker rage, wanted to let go, but instead she opted for civility. Barely. "The apartment I tore apart with a goddamn tire iron didn't give that away?"

Logan felt himself riling up. _Right. Perfectly fucking civil._ Another warning growl started low in his chest, he felt his fists clench and claws squeeze out about an inch. Her pure rage was almost intoxicating, nearly catching.

As before, she seemed completely oblivious to his anger. "I'm thinking you've got yer own issues to deal with, Logan. Dead girlfriends, threatened friends. Why haven't you killed this fuck yet yourself?"

Logan jumped to his feet, claws sliding out of both hands now, a snarl on his lips.

She angrily pushed the phone book off the counter, throwing it at the ground with a loud smack right at Logan's feet and advanced on the angry mutant with her fists clenched. "Yeah!" she screamed, getting right in his face. "I've got some fuckin' anger issues! Get the fuck over it!"

_Throwin' it right back in my face._ Logan barely held himself in check, tense and vibrating with anger, eyebrows drawn together as they stared each other down. The claws _snikt_'d back in. "We're gonna have to work on our communication skills if we're workin' together."

Terry breathed deeply, but didn't back down. Finally, angrily but in an even tone, "It's been barely twenty four hours since I found David. I am _not_ the fuck over it. And I need time." She took a step back. "I need Creed."

He nodded. "We'll get 'im."

The phone rang. She stepped backwards to get it, like she didn't trust Logan at her back. He understood that; sat back down, to maybe make it easier he figured, calm a situation that had suddenly sky rocketed.

"Terry," she answered gruffly. Logan could easily pick up the voice on the other end.

"Hey girl, it's Paulie. I have had one fucked up morning, and then getting your call about Creed? What the hell, Terry? How are you mixed up with this fucker?"

"He killed David."

"... what? I thought David … Fuck, no shit? Then, that was his bike? I thought it was familiar..."

"Is he there?"

"Listen, don't fuck with this guy. I get it, you know, but seriously -"

"Paul. Is. He. There?" Paulie seemed to sense her rage, and there was a couple seconds of silence on the phone. Logan leaned forward from his position, listening intently. Terry stared without seeing at the wall in front of her.

"He showed up at my house. My _house_, my mother fuckin' home. He dragged me outta bed, down here, made me fix the bike and he's gone. He gave me so much cash, more than the part woulda cost. Threw it at me and told me I was lucky to be breathin', and leftf. Thank fuck he's gone. Seriously, Terry. He just walked out, this minute. Thirty seconds ago. He was here when you called."

_Shit._ Logan felt the fine hairs on his neck rise, his arms tense, fingers vibrate. If Creed was anywhere nearby, even just standing outside...

"Terry?" Paulie, worried at the silence. "Look … I'm sorry. I didn't know. Should I … should I call the police?"

"No." Terry hung her head, eyes closed, gripping the receiver with white knuckles. "They wouldn't believe you. They didn't believe me. Do you know where he was heading?"

"No. Man, I'm sorry, Terry. The guy is fuckin' _scary_, I thought he was gonna, ya know … with those fingers? He's huge, so fuckin' huge. I thought I was dead. I … "

The other line went very quiet. Not dead. Just quiet.

"Paul?"

Logan got up, he grabbed the phone from Terry and pressed it to his ear. She reached for it and he swatted her hand away, a hand to his lips. There was the slightest sound of a door opening, quietly, like the phone had been left on the counter while Paulie stepped away from it. Logan could hear this, could work out the sounds, but Terry couldn't. She opened her mouth to protest, but his glare stopped her.

"What's wrong? It ain't workin'?" Paulie's voice, tiny and far away.

"Where's the runt?"

Logan's eyes met Terry's, his own wide. Creed was still there. _Creed's still there! Paulie's answering the door, letting Creed in..._

"What?" Paulie's voice, closer now, like he was backing up to the phone left on the counter. "What runt? Who?"

And more silence. A crunch. _Bone?_ A thud. _A body?_

And then scuffles, as on the other end the receiver was picked up. "Runt? 'Zat you?"

Logan swallowed. Terry held his gaze, hand frozen in mid air. The only thing she had heard was Creed's voice, and it stilled her in place.

"Yeah. It's me."

"You followin' me, runt?"

"Fer a while now, Creed. Ya' just catchin' on? Growin' slow in yer old age?"

A low chuckle from Creed on the other end in response. "That was Davie's frail I heard, ain't it? Is that the story? Ya shacked up with her, not a day after I do her old man in, and now y'gonna help her come get me?"

Logan turned, trying to shelter the phone from a sudden Terry that was all scrambling and reaching hands. "Creed-"

She was on him, reaching over him, half clambering up his back to wrench the phone from his hands, screaming into it with an all consuming rage. And he was too surprised at her sudden quickness and fury to stop her. "I will _kill _you! I will find you, I will gut you, you _ARE DEAD_!"

Creeds booming laugh came through the phone, so loud it was like he was there. "Good luck, girl." And the line went dead.

Terry submitted to her rage then, eagerly welcoming the anger that had been building since Creed has first pushed his way into her apartment and stolen David out of her life. She screamed into the phone until she was hoarse, obscenities and threats and wordless anger until she seized the phone base and tore it from the wall, throwing it and the receiver at the fridge. It fell to the ground in pieces and she kicked it across the room. Then she attacked the nearest items within reach: dishes, silverware, the microwave, the coffee maker.

Logan stepped back, and back, and then clear out of the kitchen and into the living room. He sat on the edge of the old, thread bare mattress of the pull out couch and he let her work it out, didn't draw any attention to himself for fear of becoming a subject of her wrath. She eventually sank down to the floor, back pressed against the fridge, heaving for breath. Her whole body twitched. She screamed once more, painful and emotional now, loss pouring out of her for a loved one she'd never see again, hands pressed to the side of her head.

And moment by moment, deep rattling breath by breath, grew quiet.

And Logan watched it all, seeing his own rage reflected in her.

She came back, stopped seeing red and calmed down. Logan stood and walked toward the door, opening it slowly. He stopped and looked down at her. "Pack a bag," he said, evenly, quietly, but with no room for argument. "Pack light. And meet me out front in ten. We're leaving."

She'd barely nodded before he walked out, pulling the door closed behind him. He headed straight for his motel room across the street. His duffel bag was already packed, waiting on the single bed. Tossing the tooth brush in it from in the bathroom, he left cash on the nightstand for the night, and then headed out to his bike. She was out there another five minutes later, a backpack slung across her shoulders, and a determined frown on her face.


	7. Chapter 7

VII.

Paulie stared sightlessly up at Logan and Terry, a pool of his own blood spread out below his head on the linoleum of the repair shop. His throat had been crushed and ripped open. There was a winking smiley drawn into the linoleum with Paulie's blood, dried brown in the air.

Logan's nostrils flared, trying to work past the stink of blood to focus on Creed. He'd been all over the shop, seemed to have paced all over in short time in there. The phone had been ripped from the wall and thrown behind the counter, but it was the only thing damaged.

Besides Paulie.

Logan looked up from the body to Terry. There was no pity, no sadness, nothing of that sort coming off of her. He'd met his fair share of people who knew how to deal with death, had met those that couldn't handle it and those that could. Met those that lost their lunch, their minds, those that mourned too long and too hard. And those that didn't mourn at all.

Terry fell into that category. Her eyes shimmered only with a brimming anger that threatened to spill over. Her hands shook at her side, her temper needing a release even so shortly after the damage done to her kitchen. She seemed to notice, and stuffed her hands into her jacket. Then she turned and walked out of the shop, door dinging shut behind her.

Logan prowled about for a little bit, took his time checking the place out, but there was nothing more to find. There was evidence in the far back room of bike work, oil and used rags and machine bits, and Creeds stench was heavy here. But, nothing to it. Creed had been here, and then Creed had left. With a short phone call in between.

He stopped at Paulie and the smiley face again. A kind of signature of Creed. He didn't find it funny. He scuffed the mark into smears and then went outside.

Terry sat on the sidewalk next door, in front of the now empty and quiet club, boots in the gutter and smoking a cigarette. He walked over to her and stood next to her, looking at the dark bar; could smell Creed here, too.

"Nick's dead."

Took a second for him to remember who Nick was. "The owner of the club?"

"He's inside. Worse off than Paulie."

"Personal, then, maybe." He took a couple steps toward the bar.

"Don't bother." She stood up, crushing the cigarette under her work boot. "There's nothin' else except Nick. He didn't leave anything." She headed back toward the repair shop. "Gimme a sec, and we can go."

He did, waiting near the parked bikes. Maybe against his better judgement, but really, it was unlikely he'd find anything of interest in the bar, either. Just one more dead body. Terry came back out in two minutes, stuffing money and several tools into her backpack. Logan raised an eyebrow at her, but she resolutely refused to look at him, climbing on her bike and clapping her helmet into place, turning to secure the backpack behind her. She was wearing a set of new riding gloves.

"You robbed the place?" he asked finally, sensing she wasn't going to bring it up.

"And Nicks."

"Why?"

"They don't need the cash, do they? I do."

Logan climbed onto his own bike. "S'pose the cops might think this was a robbery. Might think it's not connected to Dave. Might be lookin' in the wrong direction," he said quietly, voice too flat and too light to be anything but see through.

"It's David. And I s'pose so," she grunted back. She gripped the handle bars tightly, knuckles white. Now she looked at him, eyes still empty of anything but anger. "Which way?"

Logan toed up the kickstand, grabbed his own bars. "North."

She kicked the bike to life and led him to the freeway.

.

Logan waited for Terry to pull along side him and shut down her bike. He was already standing next to his. He'd pulled over beneath an overpass, shielded from the sun but not the roar and dust of the passing trucks and cars.

Terry yank off her helmet, and pulled down the bandanna she had covered the lower half of her face with. "What? You lose him?"

Logan nodded with a growl, dragging a hand down his face, wiping the travel off. "Yeah. He duped me."

"He turned around? South?"

"Think so. Musta taken a side road, headed inland, or maybe over to the water. Otherwise we woulda passed him, woulda recognized him and the bike. Trackin' on the road, the high way … it ain't easy. I'm good. But there's a lot out here that makes this hard."

They'd been on Interstate 5 heading north for two hours, getting pretty close to the border at this point, and figured Creed had maybe, at best, an hours head start. Logan had been on his toes, following what he could catch of the trail and hoping for the best otherwise. In the city it'd been easier, he had been able to find the exact entrance to the I-5 that Creed had used even, but the open road made it a little harder. It was windy, it was loud, and there were an awful lot of cars, bikes and people mucking things up. Not to mention the trees, the wilderness, that kept pulling his attention away with the better smells, the smells of home. Trees, barks, dirt, open sky...

He raked his hands through his hair in annoyance, scratching at his scalp, grumbling angrily. "He's been heading north for months. I figured he was heading up into BC, maybe further. Just a hunch, but … I dunno. That's where I'm from. Originally. Mebbe I was lettin' …" He grimaced. "... feelings … get in the way."

"Wanted to go home more than you wanted to catch him?"

Her tone irked him in its accusation. She was staring at him carefully, eyebrows drawn together. "It ain't like that."

"Okay."

They stared at each other for a few moments, then she slapped the helmet back on her head. "Let's turn around. Find the exit he took, find out if he went for a ferry or something, or went for the 405," she said.

"Okay." Logan swung his leg back onto his bike and sat.

"How're you doin' this?"

He looked over at the question, confused. "What?"

"How're you trackin' him? Smell? You got a special nose, too? To go with that fancy silver of yours?"

Logan almost laughed, almost grinned. "Yeah, I got a fancy nose. But so does Creed, that's why trackin' him down can be hard. Half the time he knows it when I get too close."

"Huh." She kicked her bike to life, effectively ending any more talk, and waited for Logan to lead the way.

.

They ended up nearly back in Seattle before Logan lead the way off an exit, onto Highway 2, and east toward the mountains, national parks, Spokane and Montana. For almost a week they followed the slightest of trails, the slightest of clues, somehow always a day or two behind Creed. He was making it hard, throwing every trick he could Logan's way. False trails left and right on side roads, one even a foot trail through the forest for half a day. Logan knew Creed could move almost as fast on foot, and hands, really, and was discouraged to be led back to the road they'd come in on, only to feel like they'd lost half a day on a wild goose chase. Terry was a shitty hiker, slipping and cursing and angry. If he hadn't been throwing them off with a false lead, she would have given them away anyhow.

A couple times they found the motel that Creed had stayed at for a night, and nearly always got a room at the same place. Logan always asked for a different room, always a smoking double occupancy, but he was unsettled either way, his short temper making things even testier with his travel buddy.

That, and he wasn't sleeping well. It wasn't his normal dreams, nightmares, or general anxiety of his surroundings keeping him from a good nights sleep, but Terry. Whatever it was she was dreaming, he assumed freshly widower nightmares, she whimpered through it half the night. Logan would wake at the first stirrings of it, the sounds so slight that he sometimes didn't catch them at first. Sitting up to look across the space between the twin beds, over the night stand and lamps and motel bibles, he'd watch as Terry worked through her imagination. She didn't move much, twitching maybe, the slightest kick of a leg or restlessness of an arm. She always lay with her back to him and he could never see her face, but would watch her shoulders hunch as she'd curl up against whatever she was seeing behind her closed eyelids. Once she moaned, once she yelped, and each time woke herself up with the sound of it. He'd listen to her breath, listen as she got her heart rate back under control, laying there as still as she could in the dark. And eventually she'd nod back off, and for the rest of the night be okay. At some point after, Logan would eventually nod off too, too tired now to dream of much in the remaining hours.

One night they found a motel with a liquor store next door. She'd drunk enough to pass out and sleep the night through without dreams. She was irritable the next morning, more so than normal, but at least she'd slept. Which meant Logan had.

The sixth night found them east of Great Falls, Montana, several miles off the I-15. They'd pushed themselves hard today, rarely stopping. Terry never once took the lead in breaking for food or rest, and Logan finally had to take it upon himself to do so based on estimates of what he thought she could handle.

Tonight, near to one am, he caught her yawning and finally pulled them off the road and into the parking lot of a dingy motel, situated between a liquor store and a run down strip mall. She never said thank you when he did make them stop for the night, but never said she could continue on, either. He figured he was estimating right.

"S'all I got, buddy. Want it or not?" The desk clerk help up the key for the one room left, a single queen, non-smoking. Logan huffed about it, but eventually said yes and paid up. He walked out to where Terry was waiting, her elbows on the handlebars, head resting on her hands.

"They only got a queen left, darlin'. Good with that?"

"No," she mumbled, raising her hand. "And stop callin' me darlin'." She got off the bike though, unclasped her backpack, and grabbed the key from his fingers. She read the number off the tag, and made her way to the room. Logan followed behind, growling to himself.

"Yer lucky I don't got yer ears, Logan," she grouched sleepily, unlocking the rickety door, holding the lacksydaisy screen with a foot. "I might catch what yer sayin' and make you take it back."

Logan smiled at her back, flipping the light on as he went into the room behind her. "Sure are cute when you're sleepy, sweetheart."

She looked over her shoulder at him, clearly too tired to be too angry about his slip.

"Sorry. Terry," he corrected himself with obvious sarcasm. He dropped his duffel bag on the one bed. "You good sharin'?"

"No." She dropped her backpack next to the dripping A.C. unit, and flopped down on the bed, rolling so her back was to Logan. "Take the floor."

Logan's lip curled back, an angry retort on his tongue. She threw the free pillow at his head, kicked his duffel bag off the bed, grabbed the edge of the sheet and pulled it up over herself. Lay diagonal, taking up as much space as she good. "Enjoy," she muttered, eyes closed against the light. She toed off her boots beneath the covers, kicking them out from underneath them.

Logan growled out a curse, mumbled a few choice names for her, and threw the pillow on the ground next to the bed. He'd have no issue sleeping on the ground, actually found it preferable in most cases, but … _still. It's the point of the matter._

"Super lucky I don't have yer hearin'," floated sleepily from the cocooned woman. Logan went to reply, but from her breathing, realized she'd already drifted off. He snarled in annoyance, and then, with a roll of his shoulders and a crack of his neck, let it slide. Figured, maybe, she needed the bed more anyway. Made him feel a bit better, making it _his_ decision that she could have the bed to herself.

He stripped down to his briefs, found an extra blanket stuck on the shelf above the worn ironing board, and got comfy on the floor. He was out almost as quickly as Terry.

.

Terry was dreaming again, heavy breathing and the slightest whimper waking Logan up from his light sleep. He blinked away the fuzziness, trying to figure out why he was suddenly awake. It was so quiet, just the sound of the fan in the A.C. running, that he almost wasn't cognizant of the fact that it was Terry's dreaming that had woke him up.

Just as he felt himself surrendering to sleep again, he heard the rustle of sheets above him from the bed and heard a gasp from Terry. _'Nother nightmare._ He rolled silently to his back, closing his eyes, trying to ignore the soft sounds from above and to fall back asleep.

But when her arousal was suddenly thick around him, the sweet smell abruptly there, so all around, so over powering, his eyes shot open and he was instantly wide awake. He stared up into the shadows, listening to Terry and realizing what he was hearing. Ever so slowly, perfectly silent, he raised himself up, bringing his eyes just above the level of the bed.

Terry was half on her back, head twisted away from Logan, one knee raised, foot flat on the bed, the other leg splayed open, and her hands at the juncture between her legs.

Logan's nostrils flared, eyes widening as he watched Terry's hands work beneath the unbuttoned denim jeans. It was all he could hear now, all he could smell. The slipping, sliding, wetness of her fingers, of …

His body was responding on its own, heart suddenly pounding in his ears and his groin suddenly tight with desire and lust. _Shit! _He flopped back to the floor, pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, pushing hard, fireworks exploding. His head pounded, his crotch was throbbing to life, and he tried to control his sudden ragged breathing, all of a sudden desperate that she not know he heard, not know that he was awake. He bit his lip, concentrating. He bit too hard and the sudden taste of blood in his mouth made matters worse, made him see almost red. Gritting his teeth he pushed it back, pushing the red down, focused just on calm, on breathing. Dropped his hands by his sides and flexed them, trying to ease the tension in his body.

From the bed, she gasped. He saw fingers clutch at the sheets by the edge of the bed. Clenching his hands together, he stared wide eyed at the suddenly delicate, suddenly oh-so-very feminine fingers as they curled into the fabric. The fingers relaxed, he heard her give the slightest whisper of a moan, and could smell her completion waft over the bed and assault his senses.

"David..." It was so quiet he almost missed it.

He suddenly felt like a voyeur, a sicko that was privy to a special, private moment, a lecherous stranger that was sticking his nose in where it didn't belong. He lay a forearm over his eyes, his breathing calming now as he focused instead on the disgust of his natural reactions. Unnatural reactions. _She's in mourning, she's missin' him, even if she doesn't show that to me. I got no right, actin' like that when she's just tryin' to … to ease the pain. _

She was asleep again, the deep sleep of a contented woman, one a little more okay with the world. It took Logan a long time to calm down enough to fall back asleep. When he finally did, it was uneasy and full of dreams that did nothing to allow him to wake up rested.


	8. Chapter 8

VIII.

Logan awoke flat on his stomach, legs splayed out and one arm beneath his head as a make shift pillow, the other wrapping the real pillow up tightly against his side. Raising his head, neck popping against the movement, he looked about the motel room.

Coffee was brewing in the tiny two cup machine, the television on low. Water hung in the air, the bathroom door wide open. Terry was standing in front of it, brushing out her wet hair, already dressed in fresh clothes. She noticed him in the mirror and turned, coming out.

"Awake?"

"Mmm," he grunted, rolling to his side stiffly and pulling the pillow over his head. She was glistening wet, glowing, hair dripping and he could smell the scented soap and shampoo clinging to her skin. She was suddenly so much more feminine than when they'd met, reeking of _woman_ and _desirability_ and … _Fuck, I thought I'd sleep this off. Dammit, bub, pull it together_.

"Listen to this." She turned up the volume on the television and sat on the edge of the bed. The volume too loud to ignore and go back to sleep, Logan huffed and got up. As he pulled himself up, stretching out the kinks and slipping his jeans back on, eyes carefully averted from the woman on the bed, he paid only half an ear to the news report. Once he had a cup of coffee in his hands and was inhaling the delicious aroma, he realized what he was hearing.

Creed had been in Great Falls, and been busy. Several members of a well known, but not that well respected, law firm had been found mutilated, spread out among the several offices of the high rise floor their business occupied. A secretary as well, who appeared to simply be in the wrong place at the wrong time. The news anchor made several comments regarding the law firms highly suspicious dealings and suspected partnerships with known felons, the mob, and even worse undesirables. In the background, past the small, but growing mob of people and police tape, forensics teams came out with blood splashes up to their elbows, their lower bodies wet up to their knees.

"Creed was busy," Terry mumbled, voicing Logan's own thoughts. He grunted in agreement. "Though, still," she continued, "it's not necessarily him. Just an assumption based on …"

She trailed off as an older gentleman was pulled onto the camera for a live interview, his custodial uniform clearly marking him as a building employee. "Yeah, I saw 'im! I saw who did this, I tell you that!"

"Can you tell us what he looked like, sir?" The reporter asked, nearly jamming the microphone down the man's gullet in her excitement at the scoop.

"Sure can!" he crowed. "Big! Seven feet tall, eight maybe! Huge! He looked like Bigfoot! Or Sasquatch!"

The reporter frowned, pulling her microphone back. But the custodian, realizing the interest was waning significantly at that remark, grabbed it in his wiry hands to continue. "He did, I tell ya! Blond and shaggy and toothy and with claws, sharp claws. He was like a Sasquatch in clothes! With less hair."

Logan grabbed the remote from Terry's hands and muted the report. "Well, that's one way to describe Creed."

"As a shaved Sasquatch?"

Logan laughed, pouring himself some more coffee. "Yup, although I think he might take offense to that."

"Creed?"

"No, Sasquatch," he said, turning. "Walter." The information and name was on his tongue and out of his mouth before he remembered who he was talking to. He snapped his jaw shut, trying to feign a joke with wide eyes. Sipped his coffee innocently, leaning against the table.

She stared at him, eyes narrowing in suspicion. He felt an eye twitch, felt himself being read way too easily for his comfort level. She finally stood up, grabbing her cigarettes from atop the television and stalked outside. He could hear her grumbling about what the world was coming to - why, back when _she_ was a kid - as she lit up and sat in the available plastic chairs outside.

He laughed quietly to himself, and then with a start realized he was still shirtless. He felt embarrassed, bad even, for not really noticing earlier. Felt like he was flaunting himself in front of a widow, and felt like a degenerate for doing so. He grabbed a shirt and clambered in the shower to wash the feeling of unease off his skin.

They spoke of tactic over breakfast. She proposed methods of killing Creed, and he mostly rebuked them. Honestly, he had tried most of what she was imagining. He had his own thoughts on the matter, and still figured he'd somehow get her out of the room when it came down to a fight between him and Creed. That is, if they ever caught up to him. Or if Creed caught up to them, as it was, seeing as he had doubled back behind them. That thought unnerved them both. They'd been duped, and badly.

.

Lunch time found them back in Great Falls, standing amongst the crowd gathered outside of the lawyers high rise. The two finally decided it was worth checking out the scene, as from Great Falls, there were too many well travelled roads for Creed to disappear on.

Middle Montana news and rumor mill was having a field day. It took Logan and Terry a good twenty minutes to elbow their way through the crowd and up near the front, close as they could get to the police barricades. They passed pockets of groups that quite obviously had some sort of vested interest in the slain lawyers and their business, if going by the scowls and angry mutterings were any indication.

The barricade made a half circle in front of the entrance to the building, police keeping out the crowd while keeping in the few news stations granted access, and the many, many police and forensics and detectives that made up the investigative force. Logan very nearly bristled, shoulders hunched and eyes darting every which way, nostrils flaring. Terry finally had to ask.

"What's got your panties in a twist, Logan?"

He shot her a glare, lips peeled back. He looked anxious, even nervous. But she'd never say that aloud. "Too much," he snapped. Then clarified: "All the smells. The noise. The police, the shit they're using, the chemicals. Then all these people, and beneath it, Creed. Barely. I can barely catch him. It's like, he's here, but, not quite. Somewhere." He roamed his eyes about the crowd again. "This is a lot o' people for me."

"Don't like crowds?"

"No."

She nodded, like it made sense and so everything else did. He growled out in unease and rolled his shoulders, trying to calm down and focus on the one scent he knew as intimately as his own, or his teammates. Or Terry's. He cast her another glance. She was staring intently at figures near the front doors of the building. He followed her gaze.

"S.H.I.E.L.D.," he offered, picking out the three people in tight blue and white outfits that had caught her eye.

"What now?"

"It's a … kinda, secret branch of the government. I guess. They watch over -"

"Don't," she mumbled. "I don't care."

"Ignorance is bliss?"

"Somethin' like that." She paused, watching the three move inside. "Does that mean they know who was involved?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. He cycles between high profile an' low," Logan answered, figuring she was asking about Creed. "He's low right now, but they might still throw him in the suspect pool. Dependin' on how he left the bodies." He watched the retreating figures, wondering if he knew any of them. Wondering if he might place a couple calls, get a little more involved. Or keep himself out of it entirely.

"Creed."

The breathy whisper of recognition removed the question of interfering from his mind. He twisted to see where Terry was staring. Beyond the tape and the police, beyond the other arm of the crowd and maybe a hundred yards away, was the huge, hunched figure of Creed as he sat atop Dave's Harley. His elbows rested on the handlebars, hands loose in front, feet flat on the ground and an amused smile tugging at his lips. Then he saw Logan staring at him and the smile broke into a wide grin. And he blew a kiss.

Logan was cognizant of the switch, conscious of his advance on Creed, and somewhere in his rational mind aware that barreling through a crowd and into a group of police was perhaps not the brightest idea out there, but he no longer cared. His rage was of top most importance. He saw red, he zeroed in on Creed and was aware only of his anger as he ran at his long time foe. He felt furious raw rage directed at the laughing face of Creed, and then Logan was suddenly aware of the pavement as it rushed up to meet his face. He twisted his neck at the last second and it was his temple that bounced off the pavement, keeping him from a broken nose. There were two sets of arms held tight around him. Glancing down he found it was two policemen, one grappling with his legs, the other his arms, trying to pin them to his sides.

He immediately stopped thrashing, stopped fighting, let them pin him down. Beyond them he saw two more on their asses on the ground. One nursed a broken nose, while the other seemed to have gotten off only dazed. A fifth, a detective by the looks, was dragging Terry over by the arm. She looked pissed, but wasn't giving much of a fight. She was trying to find something in the crowd, trying to see something. Someone. _Right. Creed._

Logan looked about him, head ringing. He'd been tackled while running at full speed. He'd jumped the the police tape, knocked down the barricade and had crossed most of the way through the half circle made by the crowd before being brought down. He was hauled to his feet, after two tries to lift him without help failed miserably until he got his feet underneath him and helped the normals. The two that tackled him kept a tight grip on his biceps. He was trying to catch Terry's eyes, but she wasn't letting him. He finally twisted his neck to see where she was looking. Creed was still sitting atop the motorcycle, but it was running now and he'd turned about to face the other way. He waved, and then laughing loudly enough for Logan to catch it over the crowd of people, rode away.

Logan turned back barely in time to see Terry's fist. "You fuckin' IDIOT -"

Her fist connected. It was a hard punch, she threw all she had behind it, and that's why her hand snapped. He heard three fingers break, maybe one or two metacarpal. His head snapped to the side from the force, but any damage was healed by the time he shook his head clear and brought it back up. Terry's words transformed into an anguished cry of pain and she yanked her hand to her chest, cradling it in the other. The detective that had lost his grip on her was right behind her shoulder, and stopped in surprise to stare at Logan.

He shrugged. "I got heavy bones."

The detective jerked his head at the cops holding Logan. "Get him inside." He lead the way to the building, dragging Terry with him.


	9. Chapter 9

IX.

Terry retrieved her wallet, cigarettes and keys from the cage and walked outside. She sat down on the stoop of the police station, rubbing at the headache present in her temples. It'd taken most of the day, but she'd been released and told to go home and forget about Logan and the lawyers and all that jazz. Go take a bath. Relax. Paint your nails. Mourn a little.

She would have punched the detective if her hand wasn't already broken.

She'd been in an interview room next to Logan for four hours. Her hand had been wrapped and she was given several pain killers, but didn't seem to believe she'd broken it on Logan's jaw. When questioned, she'd spoken loudly and clearly and answered everything with as little detail as she could get away with. Yes, she knew Logan. No, not for long. Yes, she was travelling with Logan of her own free will. Yes, just a road trip. No, she didn't know why he'd gone nuts at the crime scene. Yes. Yes. Yes. No. No. No.

She wasn't sure he could hear from the room next door, but she was hoping so.

Her ID was run, she was cleared as a case of "wrong place, wrong time" and kicked out the door. And told not to expect Logan any time soon. She dug out the cigarettes, lighting one up, and felt some of the tension ease from her shoulders and neck as she deeply inhaled. As she sat there, the three S.H.I.E.L.D. operatives that Logan had pointed out pulled up in a tinted, all black hatchback. They completely ignored the tired woman on the steps as they tromped inside.

Terry smoked two cigarettes before getting up off the stoop and finding a taxi.

.

It was ten weeks before she saw Logan again.

She hadn't changed motels, sticking with the one queen, non-smoking unit several miles off the I-15. Her bike, and Logan's, were parked out front, but hadn't been ridden in over a week. She survived off weak coffee, strong beer, tobacco and bar food. Sometimes she splurged and got pizza. Beyond being on a first name basis with the motel staff, she was now known at Paddy's Pub across the street as a regular. After the first couple days of situating herself at the motel - getting Logan's bike towed in, having some money wired over, stocking up on beer and clothes and a couple new shirts and socks, finding a doctor to put a cast on her hand - she hadn't gone out of eye sight of the motel for more than a half hour.

She knew Logan would be showing up. She just wasn't sure when.

For the first week she stayed locked up inside the motel room, curtains drawn and only sneaking out for food. Week two she bought a gun. A semi-automatic pistol from the counter display, one the salesman assured her was good for a woman with hands her size but with enough stopping fire power for someone larger. There was a reasonable waiting period, and then she was practicing in the field behind the motel, thanks to the owners permission. Her right hand was useless in the cast and she was forced to practice only with her left. Week eight she cut the cast off using a pizza cutter and pinking shears borrowed from Paddy. She began practicing the gun with her right hand, and found that after the healing of the hand she needed more practice than she had thought. She struggled to pull the trigger, finding no strength any more in her fingers, and her aim took almost two weeks to show any improvement. She stocked up on bullets, and hid the gun in a dirty sock under the pillow when it wasn't tucked into her jackets inside pocket. She cut a hole in the sock to get to the trigger easier.

The beginning of week ten found her shopping for winter clothes. Logan showed up to find her outside the room, sitting in the same spindly plastic chair, smoking the last of today's pack, with a toque on her head and gloves on her hands, but braving the coming winter cold with only a thick sweater and furry boots with her jeans and long johns beneath stuffed inside.

Logan stepped from the taxi and faced her. She watched the taxi drive off, then slid her eyes back to him. His clothes looked filthy, ragged, the leather jacket barely covering the dried blood along his chest. She wondered if the cab driver had noticed. Logan adjusted the new duffel bag on his shoulder, then moved past her inside, leaving the heavy door open, the screen one springing closed behind him. She listened to him dump the bag on the floor, followed by what sounded like boots, jeans, shirt and jacket, and the bathroom door slam. Ten minutes later he exited with a cloud of steam, and clambered nude into the bed. Terry watched from her new position in the easy chair next to fridge. It was barely a minute before he was snoring in sound sleep.

She left for Paddy's to grab some food and wait.

.

Logan awoke in the morning hours to the smell of coffee, hot food, and cigarettes. He rolled out of the bed, scratching at his hair and face and trying to wake up from the much needed sleep he'd finally gotten. The wooden door was slightly ajar, cold air billowing in and fighting the heater in the room. There were the remains of a makeshift bed on the floor. He poked his head out the door, propping the screen with a foot. The sun was out, a light dusting of melting snow on the ground, a cold chill in the air despite the suns warmth.

"Terry?"

She looked up from the morning paper, cigarette and coffee in one gloved hand, multi tasking. A Styrofoam box of eggs, hash browns and bacon lay half eaten next to her. "Hey, look who's finally up. Only twenty hours later. Welcome back to the land of the livin'."

It was the cheeriest he'd seen her, and he had to smile at it. She sounded almost normal. He leaned against the door jamb, idly scratching at his chest. "Yeah, I needed it. Recoupin' I guess you call it, lettin' my healing factor catch up. Been a rough few days." He reached out for the food. "Can I finish that?"

She pushed it to him and he dug in hungrily. "I'll go get more for ya soon." She leaned back in her chair, watching him, sipping on her coffee. "Question for ya, Logan."

"What?" he asked around a mouthful of eggs.

"That healing factor of yours keep you from feelin' the cold?"

"Why, whatcha-" He looked down. He was still nude. Feeling his face heat he retreated back inside quickly, threw on jeans and a tee from his duffel, then followed it with his boots and a jacket. No, the cold didn't get to him too much, but he'd stand out sitting outside without a jacket at the very least.

When he joined her back outside she was lighting another cigarette. She passed it to him, then lit another one for herself. "That might be the first time I've ever seen you blush," she said.

"And the last," he muttered, focusing on his hash browns, and with those quickly disappearing, the cigarette. He helped himself to some of her coffee. It tasted better than the instant motel shit - _she musta gone out to pick it up. Where … oh._ He spied Paddy's across the street. _Well then._

The silence was companionable for a while, and then Terry began to fidget uneasily. "So," she finally muttered. "You gonna share?"

He eyed her carefully. "How much you wanna know?"

"Only enough to get me to Creed."


	10. Chapter 10

X.

Logan had a lot to share, a lot to say, but he only said what she wanted to know. The trip back to Westchester, the month spent with S.H.I.E.L.D., the second trip to Westchester, the rough week getting back to Montana, he decided he would leave most of that out. Not only was Terry not interested, she really honestly didn't care. She was using him as a vehicle for revenge, and as long as he did his job well she'd be fine. But if he wasn't here to help her find Creed, then she'd have no use for him. He wasn't quite liking being on the receiving end of this arrangement. She'd waited for him this long though, and he owed her some information.

But he didn't owe her much more than that. It was not a decision lightly come by, but Logan had decided at some point during the month, he wasn't sure when the thought became concrete in his head, that Terry would sacrifice her life in her need for revenge against Creed. He certainly wouldn't promote that, nor even really encourage events to that conclusion … but if things were headed that way? If it worked out that her death also meant Creed's? Logan was okay with that. He could live with that. He had to live with a lot, and in the long run, one more victim of Creed's didn't seem like a lot if it meant there wouldn't be any more to come.

Logan took her inside and gave her a manila envelope. Inside were several black and white eight by elevens of a cabin in the middle of a forest clearing, surrounded on two sides by what looked like a rather large cliff, and the other sides by dense forest. She perused them carefully, focusing on the few that showed a blurry figure working about the cabin."This is him?"

"Yup."

"Who gave you these?"

"I thought ignorance was bliss?"

She ignored the snarky remark. "Those blue and white feds?"

"S.H.I.E.L.D. Yeah."

"In exchange for...?" She raised an eyebrow at him, sitting the pictures down on the bed.

Logan scratched at his nose as he thought about an answer. "We worked out a deal. I helped 'em out with somethin' back east, and they found Creed for me. Fer us, I mean." He tapped the pictures with a finger, sat down on the opposite end of the bed. "This is in the Yukon. He's got a couple other safe house spread about the US, Canada, coupla overseas. Some they don't know about, probably. Lucked out that he went to this one, and they got 'im on satellite. I don't know if I coulda followed his trail there, after losing him when we got arrested."

She picked up the picture with the blurry top view of Creed in it. "When _you_ got arrested," she corrected him in a mumble. She chewed on her bottom lip, scrutinizing the picture, like it'd give her the answer in how to kill Creed.

Logan crossed his arms and leaned back against the headboard, pulled his feet up on the bed. Watched her trying to figure things out, noticed her longer hair, her more open face. She seemed less closed off, a little more open to him. So he relaxed. "That why ya hit me? Pissed 'bout losin' him in the crowd?"

"Not just that. Pissed about losin' him at all. That he was on David's bike, so relaxed like that, that he blew a kiss, that you flipped out and charged across the the police line like you were aimin' for the police themselves …" Her grip tightened on the picture, then she looked up at him. She felt out of breath. This felt like her longest speech in months, and it felt like she was barely hanging onto the bubbling anger she'd been working so hard to keep in check. "Pissed that you'd give us away like that, that he knew how close we were … that he saw you taken down, saw me grabbed, that he knew … he fuckin' _knew_ we'd lost, and that'd it be hours, maybe days, before we could get on his trail again. If we ever could." She tossed the picture back to the bed, stared at her hand momentarily, then snapped her glaring eyes to Logan. "And what the fuck is up with your jaw? You fuckin' made up of metal knives?"

He laughed at her, could tell her anger spiked considerably and he choked it into silence. Nodded as solemnly as he could. "The metal is called adamantium and yes, my bones are covered in it."

She stared at him, eyes trailing over his body as she processed this information. "Can I kill you?"

He frowned. "No." _I'm sure she didn't mean it that way ..._

"Is Creed like this?"

"No."

" … can I kill Creed?"

He hesitated. He hadn't lied to her yet. Maybe omitted certain facts, but never lied outright. "Not without my help," he finally answered. She accepted that, nodding thoughtfully. She opened her mouth for another question and he interrupted her. "What is that?" he snapped, head whipping around. He stared at the pillow next to him as he worked out the smell. Then he reached under it and yanked out the dirty sock and emptied the new gun on the bed. "You bought a gun?" he asked incredulously.

She grabbed at it protectively but he beat her to it, scooping it up in a large hand. "Protection," she muttered.

He sniffed at the weapon. "You've been practicin'."

"Yeah, yeah I have." She reached for it again and he yanked it back out of her reach. She huffed angrily, arm snapping back to her side. They glared at each other, both angry.

"What the hell, Terry? Ya ever even fired a gun?"

Her glare magnified ten fold. "Yes, I've fired a gun," she said carefully, struggling to keep her tone even. She vibrated with the effort of keeping her anger in check. "Why's it matter to you if I have a gun or not? What do you care?"

"Why'd you buy one?" he asked, turning the gun over in his hands, ignoring her questions.

"I … " She stopped. "Do I really have to explain this? Do you really not get it?"

He stared at her. Her shoulders dropped, she breathed heavily, and was silent. She was trying to sew up her emotions again, trying to revert back to the coldness she'd been so comfortable with only two months ago. And yet still so much more seeped through. She felt so much companionable toward him, and despite a lack of ten weeks being next to him, felt like no time had passed. After half a minute of no answer he stood up from the bed, gun still held tightly in the hand furthest from her. She stood up with him, in front of him, cutting off his exit. Nose to nose, her hand clenching like she'd hit him again despite more broken fingers. She drew a deep breath.

"I don't have a metal skeleton, Logan," she said evenly. "I don't have blades in my forearms. I don't have claws, or fangs. I don't heal." Her eyes flicked to the hand of his with the gun. "I don't have much at my disposal. When I find Creed, he will kill me." She paused now, letting out another breath. It hitched, and she waited until she had her emotions in check before continuing. "He'll kill me, like he killed David."

Her eyes flicked away. Logan almost stopped her. He swallowed roughly, took a half step back. "Terry," he began, but she cut him off.

"I have one chance to do this, Logan." She pulled her eyes back to his. "And I will use every available means to help make sure he dies when I do. If not before." She dropped her eyes again, staring at his hand and the gun. "One chance," she repeated, quieter. Beneath all the anger that rolled off her he finally caught the sadness, the mourning, the resignation. _She's so good at hiding it. Does she even realize it? Does she even know how to miss him?_

He held out the gun. She stared at it, not moving. Then finally reached out and took it, grasping it to her chest. He raised the same hand, settling it on her shoulder. "Look -"

She jerked out from under his touch and stepped away. "I want to hurt you."

He stilled, eyebrows shooting up in surprise. "What?"

She met his gaze again. The anger was back, hiding the loss. Her left hand tightened until her knuckles were white around the gun. Her right clenched and unclenched uselessly at her side. She was vibrating again with the anger that so easily came and went.

"I want to hurt you," she repeated, louder, more confident. Still, she held the gun flat to her chest, not in any way brandishing it. The desire was there maybe, but she lacked what she needed to follow through on it.

_Like stupidity_, Logan briefly thought, amusing himself even in a tense situation.

"You gave us away to him, to Creed. You gave us away to the cops, to the Feds - or whatever the fuck the blue and white assholes are!" she said quickly, cutting off his interjection. "You gave us away and then _disappeared for ten fucking weeks_!" She waved a hand around the hotel. "I'm stuck here not knowing what to do next, worried Creed might come by just for kicks, and you ask why I bought a gun? And then don't say shit when I tell you why? I want to hurt you cuz yer a fuckin' asshole and cuz I got anger issues! I want to fuckin' shoot you because you obviously fuckin' _need_ it! I need you to feel bad!"

Logan gave an exasperated sigh and shrugged his shoulders, hands in the air at his side. "Well, yeah, I do _now_. Jesus, Terry. Way'ta-"

She hit him, this time with the butt of the gun rather than a breakable fist. His nose made a sickening crack and began gushing blood. He slapped both hands to his face, eyes crossing, and yelling out with the pain. Beneath his fingers he felt the blood already start to ebb and the broken cartilage solidify. He pressed his sinuses into place, felt the pain spread out to his cheek bones, eyes sockets, and as quickly as it came start to disappear. He raised up his head, dropping his arms to his sides and curling his hands into fists. Blood dropped past his bared lips, off his chin, to splatter to the floor. _Alright then darlin'. Learnin' fast. Let's have a lesson now, eh?_

Terry took a step back, gun at her side and now held ready to fire, her whole body tense. Logan's claws _snikt'_ed out. He watched her whole body, the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the quick blinking as she tried to watch his face and his claws and his feet all at once. He slowly lowered his stance, rolling to the balls of his feet.

"This is gonna end just like in yer apartment, darlin'," he drawled, a grin curving his lips. "Ya can't ever beat me."

"I don't need to beat _you_," she snapped, unable to keep the anger in check. "Just your better half."

Logan growled low in his chest at the insult and flexed his arms and hands threateningly. Eyes on his claws, she turned, just the slightest twitch of her shoulders, and he threw himself at her. He withdrew the claws as he reached for her. The unarmed hand came up between them, protecting her gun, and he latched onto that forearm, planting a foot and twisting at the hip, flipping her up and over and onto the floor.

She gasped out in pain as she slammed bodily into the carpet, left arm useless in his grip. He moved down with her, pinning her body beneath his, a knee between hers, feet hooked around her ankles. He pulled his arm back as if for a blow, but rather than the metal on metal of his claws releasing, he heard the click of a pistol safety flipping off. He pulled his head back, looking down. He'd meant only to prove a point, but instead it was her that had. Even pinned beneath him from his attack, she'd still had enough sense and control to maneuver the gun into a killing spot. _Or almost a killing spot._

She had the gun held tightly in her hand, aimed dead-on and inches away from his chest. She stared up into his face, eyes tight, lips compressed. He looked between her and the gun.

"No, see … " He relaxed above her, releasing the tight grip on her arm and the awkward angle. He pressed it into the carpet beside her, hand still on her wrist, immobilizing it. He grasped the wrist holding the gun with his free hand. He pulled the gun up, aiming it instead at his head. " … when Creed has you like this, aim for his head." He leaned back down like he had been at first, positioning the gun beneath his chin, digging it into the underside of his jaw. He felt her tremble. "A shot to the head will disable him for several minutes, maybe longer if we get ya some hollow points. When he's down for the count, take off his head."

"What? Cut if off?" Her voice cracked, eyes snapping between his and the gun. She was nervous, angry, in pain. Her different emotions wafted over him. She was mostly confused at his sudden teachings, trying to figure out if that's what this had been about all along.

"Yeah," he answered. "However you can. Separate it, burn the body, bury the head, Maybe burn it too. Far away from the body. I think it might be the only way to kill him."

They still held their position. He watched her eyes as understanding and agreement flickering through them and across her face. His hands tightened a little on her wrists. "Won't work on me, though, darlin'," he warned. He gently removed the gun from her grasp, used it to tap his temple. "Bullets can't get past the metal."

Her eyes followed the gun as he tossed it up on the bed. She tried to pull out of his hold and he refused the action, grabbing her wrist again and holding it still on her chest, like she had with the gun. He could feel the quick staccato of her heart beneath their hands. It quickened as the silence lengthened. She finally broke it, a quaver to her voice. He caught the fear in it, felt his nostrils flare in appreciation.

"Let go of me."

"No."

The fear spiked, anger rising up behind it. He grinned and leaned down, nose to her throat and inhaled deeply. She arched, trying to pull away from him, only exposing more of her neck. He chucked against her skin.

"Don't do that, darlin'. He's gonna like it." He pulled back, still grinning as he watched the fear and anger play in waves across her face. She twitched below him. "He's like me, remember? Creed's gonna smell yer fear, gonna know yer scared. Gonna know yer hurt. He'll goad ya, force ya to feel more."

He leaned down again, hovering above her face. He adjusted above her, pushing roughly at her thigh with a knee, forcing it between her legs. "He'll make it last. The more scared ya are, the more fun he has playin' with ya." He pulled his nose from her collar bone up to her ear, pushing into her hair, inhaling deeply all along her skin and auburn strands. _Softer than I thought they'd be._ Moving, he dragged his tongue from her jawbone to her ear lobe, flicking at it lightly. His almost choked on the sudden wave of desire immediately followed by crushing embarrassment wafting off her. Could almost feel the heat coming off the flush as it crept along her neck, face and chest. He froze above her.

She jerked to life beneath him, struggling to get away. "Get off get off get off - "

He released her, and she kicked and tugged and pulled her way out from beneath him. He remained on all fours, watching her with lidded eyes as she scrambled into a crouch against the bed, pushing back into the corner of the drawers and the mattress. She breathed roughly, having trouble catching her breath, eyes wide.

Logan felt like he'd barely breathed at all, his chest burning, but knew he must have because all he could smell and taste was that acrid embarrassment and that sweet, tangy scent of arousal. He stared at her, arms and legs tense with the effort of holding them still, keeping himself from grabbing her and yanking her back beneath his body where he wanted her. She was the same height as him but right now seemed so small, so vulnerable. _It wouldn't take much. It's not like she's not wantin' it, and it's been a coupla months now, she's gotta be better than she was after Creed and Dave -_ The thought of Dave's death and his murderer brought him back to reality.

"Don't give him ammo to play with, girl," he finally ground out, voice heavy with the effort. "Keep your anger in check, and don't be scared. You can't fake it. And don't … don't _like_ it."

Her eyes widened impossibly further. Logan groaned with the effort of working past the suddenly doubling of embarrassment over her arousal. He pushed himself nimbly to his feet and left the room, choosing to take sanctuary in the bathroom. He slammed the door behind him and went for the shower.

She sat where she was, listening to the shower start. Closing her eyes, hand kneading a growing headache between her eyes, she sighed heavily. She worked at calming her breaths, soothing her racing pulse. He'd been goading her on, something like training her for how Creed would work, but he'd … it had changed there. Outside of a means for her revenge, she had never taken a second look at Logan simply as a warm man sharing her space. She was disgusted with herself for her reactions to him. "What am I even thinking," she mumbled quietly. He was an animal. Creed a monster, and Logan an animal, with poor, pathetic too-human Terry stuck in the middle. She knuckled her eyes, letting a groan creep out. She missed David.

"What am I doing …"


	11. Chapter 11

XI.

Logan got her a box of hollow points.

Terry got them a truck. Traded in her bike and some money, and got a decent enough all terrain vehicle for travelling further north. The previous owner threw in the chains for free. She dropped the last of her cash on a full winter wardrobe good for extreme minus temperatures that she had trouble even imagining. Logan filled up a large steel framed back pack with winter camping items, and several days worth of freeze dried food. She snuck in a pair of binoculars, and air activated hand warmers that made Logan laugh when he saw them. Two of everything else that they might need, but all in a compact size that would fit in one back pack. He shot down Terry every time she grumbled that she'd be able to carry something more than her own backpack. And while Logan was busy picking out his own winter jacket, she picked up even more hollow points, and a holster to fit on the outside of her pants.

He paid the motel to store his bike, they threw their bags in the back, and set off north.

.

Their anger at each other from the motel in Montana stretched into a somewhat easy, comfortable silence that lasted two days. The third night in northern British Columbia found them sharing pub fare and several pitchers of beer in a small almost empty motel. Logan relaxed, downing enough of the ale to feel the fuzziness about his consciousness. His travelling partner still remained aloof, stoic and even a bit cold. Logan tried to break that barrier, attempting conversation that Terry was reluctant to sustain. As he refilled his pint glass with the last of the fourth pitcher, he made the mistake of asking about Seattle and Dave and their life, "before this." Her resultant glare, accompanied by the slam of her pint glass on the table and an angry push to her feet, didn't even need the bristling "None of yer fuckin' business!" She stalked off, very nearly breaking the swinging door leading to the restrooms as she pushed her way through it.

She returned to the main room of the pub to find the barmaid perched on Logan's knee, his armed wrapped about her waist and one hand on her thigh. The pitcher was still empty. Not that she'd expected her anger to wane in between the bathroom and the table, but it was suddenly surprising with the force it suddenly overwhelmed her with. She scooped up Logan's still full glass and drained half of it, slapping it back down to the table in front of the staring couple. She wiped at her mouth angrily, snarling out, "Take your time. Please. I'm going back to the room."

She strode angrily away from the table, Logan's low, comforting chuckle to the barmaid only spurring her faster, through the nearly empty pub and into the adjoining motel, down the hallway and into their room. She was in a haze, barely conscious of her motions as she attacked the room in her anger. A tall floor lamp in the corner was the only swing-able object she could find, and it was this she used. She busted the bulb against the wall, ripped the cord from the socket, and proceeded to take out her aggression on the other inanimate objects in the room. The glass mirror, the rickety table and the wooden dresser, the rusted furnace against the wall. The lamp snapped in half after the third whack against the furnace, and she used the smaller end to pummel the old fourteen inch tube television. She became aware she was bleeding, hands and forearms cut from reaching in the broken TV through the glass and ripping out its innards. She stumbled into the center of the room, staring at her hands. Her right hand shook, aching from the work. She clenched it into a fist, watching a couple drops of blood drip onto the dark carpet.

This rivalled the anger she'd felt three months ago, the night after finding David's body. All encompassing anger that she didn't know how to release, rage that was still such a stranger she was still confused with it's presence. With it's why of being. And with the confusion came more anger, at not knowing how to deal, how to mourn, how to let go. Now her other hand was shaking.

She grabbed her carton of cigarettes from the bed side table, miraculously unharmed, and stalked from the room.

.

Logan spent three hours at the same table, flirting back and forth with the server as she went about her duties, only to have her husband suddenly show up and take extreme insult at seeing them together at a back table. He left quickly, not wishing to get in the middle of a domestic squabble. He'd most likely been only a tool for the woman to use to anger her husband.

This meant, heading back to the room, he was not only several pitchers of beer and then several highballs in, he was also pissed at himself, and angry at the ease with which he'd been teased. He was swallowing his ill temper as he shouldered open the door, coming face to face with the scene of Terry's destruction.

"Jesus fuck …" He surveyed the mess, hands gripping his hair. He kicked the door closed behind him and made his way to his bed, the single closest to the door, kicking shards of glass and wood out of the way. There was broken picture frame on his bed. He stripped the comforter, pushing everything into a pile at the foot of the bed and sat heavily, the springs creaking beneath his weight. He leaned forward on his knees, hands in his hair again as he grasped and pulled in frustration and thought. The cloud of anger and anguish Terry had left behind amidst all the broken furnishings settled down about his shoulders, clogging his senses.

Forty five minutes later and he was no closer to any understanding of this woman he was most likely leading to a bloody death at the hands of her lovers killer. There was such a large amount of barely controlled rage and anger in the tiny woman, and even though he was in many ways able to identify with that, he was in no position to offer ways for her to release the emotions. Himself, he had his claws and his fighting, and then what the waitress had so teasingly dangled in front of him … _and years of practice of just dealin' with it, I s'pose. Given a coupla life times, I guess she'd learn to control it, too _…

Forty seven minutes later and Terry was stumbling back into the room, bringing in a muddled fog of alcohol and cold air behind her. Logan sat up straight as she barged in. She stumbled in as she closed the door behind herself, and shivering, arms wrapped about herself, moved slowly toward her own bed, feet picking their way carefully along the floor. She held a bottle of whiskey clutched tightly in her left hand, fingers bright red from the cold.

"Where you been? Outside?" Logan regretted the question immediately. It was stupid - of course she had. She looked nearly frozen solid. He wrinkled his nose against the drink coming off of her as she passed by as she neared her bed. She sat, facing him, but staring at the floor.

"Drinking," she muttered.

"Outside? For three hours?"

"Naw …" she said softly. She brought the bottle to her lips, teeth still chattering from the cold. "Or, sure. M'dunno." She swallowed a mouthful, grimacing against the taste even now. She finally raised her eyes to him, then looked past him at the bed. She turned, blinking against her drunkenness and looked at the bathroom. "Where's t'girl?" she slurred.

Logan frowned. "She was teasing, usin' me 'gainst an angry husband. Why d'you care, Terry?"

She laughed. "Dinnit wanna walk into anythin' I dinnit wanna see." Her laughter died, and she stared at the bottle in her hands. She sat it unsteadily on the bedside table between her and Logan, and then took a careful, if as equally unsteady look about the room before looking back at him. "M'sorry."

"Sorry?" he echoed.

She frowned at him, eyes struggling to focus. "Yeah. Fer bein' so angry. All the time." Her eyes fell. "I dunno … I was hopin' …" She signed, shrugging her shoulders dejectedly. "I dunno what, Logan. I can't do anythin', I'm so angry all the time, an' the only way to release it is t'destroy anythin' I can get my hands on."

"Rage is its own animal, darlin'. Ya gotta learn to control it, know when to let it out and when to cage it. You can't let it rule you."

"Mmm." She fell to her back on the bed, and lazily pulled her feet up, rolling to her side, peeking out from one heavy eyelid at him. "Y'know from experience?"

"I do," he said, nodding. "I've had a long time in learnin' how to deal with it, though. You ain't so lucky."

"Mmm." She closed her eyes, breathing deeply as sleep started to over take her. "I need to kill Creed. Feel better then."

"Maybe."

"Then get rid of you. And forget about both of ya, and go back to Seattle. Or, I dunno, somewhere hot. Fuck this cold." Her forehead creased. "Fuck Creed. Fuck you. Fuck David. … David …"

She started snoring. Logan stood, switched off the bedside lamp, divested Terry of her wet boots and then pulled the comforter up to her shoulders. He forewent the idea of a shower, instead climbing into his own bed, settling his arms behind his head after grabbing a fresh cigar and puffing it to life. He enjoyed the peace and quiet in the dark, the deep breathing of Terry, and his own calming breaths and sweet aroma of his cigar. _Coupla more days, and we'll be at the cabin._


	12. Chapter 12

XII.

Several days later, they stopped the truck in an abandoned rest stop near Finlayson Lake, several clicks east of the almost abandoned airport of the same name, along the dirt road that passed for a highway this far north. Logan folded up the map he had spread across his lap and looked at Terry in the drivers seat. She was zipping up her parka and sliding on large gloves over top of thin neoprene ones. She looked back at him expectantly, jittery with barely contained energy. She knew they were close.

"This is it," he said. "We leave the truck here and go on foot. We got maybe two, three days walk before we get close enough to scope out his cabin. From here on in, you step where I step. Do what I say. Got it?"

"Got it."

He looked at her carefully, pulling on his own gloves. "Last chance to turn back, darlin'."

She kicked open the door, and as she slammed it: "Don't call me darlin'."

.

She had no experience camping, no experience hiking in a foot of snow - half hard ice as it was or not. She knew bikes, and she knew cheap motels. She struggled to keep pace with Logan, but never said a word. And just as he had when they travelled on the road on their separate bikes, he learned to read her to know when to stop, because she was never about to ask.

They made camp two times, and though she first started out not knowing how to even pitch a tent, she learned quickly and he never had to explain things twice. They had lucked out with the weather. Though it was mostly over cast, they only ever got light flurries. Terry muttered it was the coldest she'd ever experienced, despite a real lack of falling snow, but Logan found it just a tad bit under the level of comfortable. She was thankful for the hand warmers she'd thrown into Logan's pack. She was also pleasantly surprised to discover a small but comprehensive first aid kit tucked inside the pack. He only shrugged his shoulders when she asked why he'd brought it.

In the early morning of the third day they crested a small rise, the permafrost of the area sparse blow them, the northern scoop of Finlayson Lake lake hidden by rolling hills off to their right. Logan held out an arm to stop Terry as she moved up beside him.

"What is -"

He shushed her harshly, eyes roving about the land. There was less snow as they hiked up, giving way to dead, brown thigh high grass. The wind was in their face, the coldness of it making Terry's eyes water. She waited five minutes before taking another step forward.

"What is it?" she repeated.

"I thought I caught Creed for a second, on the wind. We should be gettin' be close, but I thought it'd be another few hours, still."

Terry's gloved hand went to the gun on her thigh, the holster partially hidden by the long parka. She reaffirmed its position, then pushed back her fur lined hood. She took out one of the eight by elevens of Creeds cabin she'd folded up and stuffed in one cargo pocket, studying it and the surrounding area in tandem with her binoculars. She looked at Logan to confirm her gut instinct. She pointed north west. "That way."

He was already staring hard in that direction. "Yup."

An hour later and they were carefully working their way through a natural footpath leading through a small forested area at the base of a larger mountain. Logan had spied the cabin through the leafless branches, and he left Terry and the supplies behind as he scouted ahead. The wind was still in their faces, coming down off the mountain and across the clearing the cabin sat in. Their advance should be unnoticed. He crept to the edge of the tree line, but saw no movement in the cabin. He waited and watched carefully, but there was very little to go on. The cabin was too out in the open to get close to it, tucked up next to a rock face on one side, a cliff on the other, and the near mile of flat open land before the tree line he currently hid in. It looked dark and looked quiet: no lights, no smoke from the fire place. He'd hate to see Terry's reaction if they'd missed Creed. The front porch had a drying rack, a large hook hanging from the overhang, a couple chairs and a long work table with a basin. All clean, all empty. Alongside the closest outer wall of the house was a small shed. In front of the shed doors, wrapped in plastic, was the clear shape of a large Harley.

He backed up and circled back around to Terry. She was crouched behind a fallen tree, body vibrating with the need to move, to do _anything_ besides sit here and _wait_. She nearly jumped out of her skin as he plopped down beside her, his arrival unobserved, but managed to hold in her yell of surprise.

"Well?" she demanded harshly.

Logan settled back on his heels against the trunk. "We wait. Nightfall at least. Or maybe wait 'till the early morning."

"Is he there?"

He shrugged.

"What the fuck does that mean? Is he _there_, Logan?"

He shrugged again. "Not sure. No lights, no fire, no movement. Couldn't get a handle on his stink, either. He could be gone, could be asleep, could be out."

She stared at him until he finally shifted enough to meet her eyes. She understood the difference in his words. Gone. Or out. "I want to see."

"What? No."

"Yes." She stood up, forcing him to follow suit. "Take me closer, I need to see the cabin."

"If he is here, Terry, then you run the risk -"

"Get me close enough to see the cabin. Not for him to see us."

He studied her carefully, then finally nodded. He lugged the backpack onto the trunk and jammed it into a 'y' branch to hold it there. Terry looped the binoculars around her neck and then they picked their way back to the animal made trail that led through the trees. Despite her most careful steps, the hardened snow still crunched beneath Terry's feet. She huffed at Logan's disapproving looks and attempted to think lighter thoughts. He lead them to the edge of a small clearing. Across the ten foot gap of untouched hard packed snow was another several feet of brush, and then the open meadow leading up to the cabin.

Logan stopped them at the clearing, a hand on Terry's arm to still her. She shook it off and grabbed the binoculars, bringing them up to her eyes and peering at the cabin. She stepped left two feet to get a better look. Logan took a step back behind her, watching the surrounding woods carefully. Something was unsettling him, raising the hair on his neck. _Something's not right, there's something … I can smell Creed, but it's … old. At least a week. He hasn't been through here in a while, but … what is it? What's … _The wind shifted, bringing new scents his way from the surrounding trees as it pushed its way across the clearing to the cliff side.

Terry gave a grunt. "That bastard …" She dropped the lenses and started forward.

"Wait …" Logan raised a hand for her but she stepped out of his reach. His eyes were drifting upward, seeking for the danger his senses told him was close by. _Is that … wire?_

"Terry!"

She ignored him and took another two steps into the middle of the clearing toward the cabin. He opened his mouth to say her name again, and then there was a snap of wire and a crack of wood. Terry was lifted clear off her feet and yanked two yards toward a tree. She landed heavily on her back and slid across the snow, right foot held awkwardly over her head by a noose of cable looped around a nearby tree. A snare trap, set most likely for a deer.

"Shit!" She scrabbled for purchase on the icy snow, trying to simultaneously flip herself over and also reach for her ankle. The snare wrapped tighter about her ankle as she struggled, tightening to the point of pain.

"Fuck!" As she would get a gloved hand up to her ankle she'd lose purchase with the other and slip again to her back.

"Logan!" She rolled her head back, extending a hand, expecting to find him there, ready to help, and froze when she saw that he hadn't moved from his spot by the tree line. She dropped her outstretched hand, gaping at him. "Logan?"

He took a step back. His face was impassive, body tense, hands loose and ready at his sides. She hadn't heard them slide out but there they were, six brilliantly gleaming metal claws. He pulled his eyes from the surrounding trees to the cabin. No movement. He looked down at Terry, took a second step back, and she understood.

"Don't! Don't you dare! Logan!" She reached for him again, trying to pull herself toward him, and was only yanked back from the wound tension in the cable. She yelped at the tightening of the cable around the cargo pant and her boot.

Logan brought a finger to his pursed lips, his claws _snikt_'ing back in he shushed her. He smiled gently, sadly, and then turned and walked away.

"No! NO! LOGAN!" She screamed after him, calling him names and throwing out useless threats and cursing his very existence. "Not like this, you sick asshole! Not like this!"

When she ran out of ways she was going to hurt him she switched to Creed and _his_ very being, and then to the whole situation and the mockery it had made of her life. She pounded at the snow and dug up rocks and threw them at where Logan had been standing.

She found the binoculars just at the edge of her reach where they had fallen, stretched to her limits to snag the strap, and then used them to pound at the cable wrapped about her ankle. She succeeded only in bruising her foot. She broke the lenses in the binoculars and tried the glass on the cable, but only ripped a hole in her glove. She tossed the useless equipment to the side and cursed it as well. She realized she still had her gun strapped securely to her thigh, but didn't even remove it from the holster before shelving that idea. "What're you gonna do, shoot off your fuckin' foot?"

Then she lay on her back, letting the cold creep through her layers of clothes and into her bones, felt her hand ache and her foot tingle and go numb. Then she began cursing herself. Felt the anger bubble and boil until she was nearly frothing at the mouth, and she was pounding the ground at her sides in time with wordless screams of rage.

A dry chuckle cut through her tirade and silenced her. Her body jerked up and head whipped to the side. Victor Creed stood silhouetted against the blue sky, his large form casually leaning against a tree, arms tucked into jacket pockets. He seemed impossibly larger and more intimidating then when she had first met him, oozing death and pain and agony and torture in his very smile. A gleaming, fanged smile he had only for her.


	13. Chapter 13

XIII.

Terry couldn't scream. The wave of terror and panic froze her to the spot, splayed across the frozen ground on her back with a leg hanging useless and limp from a snare trap. She stared wide eyed and gaping at the hulking form of Victor Creed. He took two large, ground eating steps toward her and then dropped to his haunches, clawed hands relaxed on his knees. She could barely tear her eyes away from his black ones to spare the deadly talons a glance. He sniffed the air appreciatively, as if relishing in the fear racing through her system.

"Well well well, caught my very own plaything, it seems," he drawled dangerously, voice oozing with dangerous intention.

The immobilizing fright gave way to her ever present rage, and with a yell of anger she was scrabbling across the ground, reaching for him with gloved, useless hands. Everything she had felt in the past three and half months was at the forefront of her mind - her rage, anger, loss. She reached for the monster that had taken David away, any thought to her present situation lost in the haze, lost to the physical _need_ to destroy what had destroyed her.

Creed almost stepped back from shock. Almost. His sneer disappeared at the sudden hostility and rage flowing off the woman before him, all traces of terror buried beneath her anger. Her reaction to his presence was very different from what he was used to.

He was out of her arms reach but she tried anyway, throwing herself against the tension in the cable and against the pain in her ankle. His face suddenly fell blank as he watched her writhing form, her scent and its recognition finally coming together.

"I know you …"

Creed's arm snaked out and grabbed a monstrous handful of her jacket, and suddenly she was no longer on her knee awkwardly lunging for him, but face down in the snow, unbelievable pressure and weight pushing into her back and holding her there. She choked on the ice and snow, arms flailing to reach the hand holding her, knee and ankle awkwardly twisted against the cable and screaming in pain. Creed was talking above her and she felt a large hand and claws dig into her scalp.

"I almost didn't recognize ya, frail. Terry, right?" Her head was wrenched back by the roots of her hair. She bit back a yelp of pain. Creed extended two claws on his fingers, and used the sharp edges to roughly cut her hair an inch or two from her scalp. He dropped the handful of trimmings on the snow, and flipped her back over. She drew in ragged breaths, spitting out snow.

"There ya go, now I remember ya," Creed laughed. He held her immobile with further pressure on her chest and lungs, squeezing the air out of her as he leaned down, forcing her head and chin up with the other hand, far past what felt possible to her neck, and inhaled deeply, scenting her. "Y'reek of the runt, Terry. He lead you up here, all the way from Seattle?"

Her hand found the broken binoculars at her side. She gripped them tightly, and with all the power in her arm, slammed them into the side of Creed's face as he was pulling his head back. The set shattered into several pieces, Creed's head snapped to the side and blood sprang from several cuts and a rather large gash along his cheek bone.

He jerked his head back around to her, a deep rumbling growl reverberating from deep within his chest, traveling in a shuddering shiver down Terry's spine. He slapped a hand around her throat, large fingers digging into her jaw and cheek and forcing her still, forcing her to watch him as he healed above her. The oozing blood slowed and stilled, and the skin knitted together and sewed itself up. He wiped the blood away, smearing it into his dirty blond hair and cheek scruff, and then on the front of her parka as he grasped a handful of the fabric again.

She never tore her eyes from his, brows pulled together, eyes slitted, teeth bared in a primitive snarl that almost matched the fanged one gracing Creed's face. She lay perfectly still beneath him, hands at her sides, one legged pinned beneath a massive thigh, the other tight in the noose. The gash on Creed's temple knitted closed at last, and then smoothed itself over with fresh skin, looking as unblemished as before.

"That's not gonna stop me, Creed," Terry roughly growled out. "I'm gonna kill you."

Creed laughed in her face, a loud booming guffaw full of real mirth, head thrown back and howling at the sky with amusement. "Oh, little girll!" He smiled down at her, lips wide to reveal his pointed canines. "You are gonna be _so_ much fun to break!"

He stood suddenly, swiping a hand back at the cable near her ankle. It snapped in two and her ankle flopped listlessly to the snow. He yanked her up with him as he cut her loose, dragging her across the clearing to where Logan had stood before deserting her. She fumbled for footing, but the numb appendage was having none of it, and Creed never gave her the chance to get her feet underneath her. He held her with without problem by the front of her parka, dragging her bodily along with him.

"Mmm, so, seems the runt left ya alone after y'got caught. Took off, left ya to defend yerself against me?" He looked down at the woman at the end of his arm. She had her hands wrapped around his thick forearm, trying to hold herself up. She raised her eyes to his, managing to steady her hanging form. She met him glare for glare, her own dripping with hate. She opened her mouth for an angry retort and he cut her off by throwing her on the ground.

Landing heavily on her left thigh she was reminded of the gun she still had strapped on. She looked hurriedly up at Creed. He was peering out into the forest, nostrils flaring, hands flexing at his sides, the claws lengthening and shortening with each contraction. He looked back at the cabin over his shoulder, then back down at her, apparently not finding Logan in the area.

Terry was attempting to right herself, pushing to unresponsive feet, the right ankle unwilling to cooperate, now tingling with painful pins and needles. He reached down and grasped her left arm, hand encircling her bicep and claws easily puncturing through the parka and her layers and digging into her skin. She gasped at the five stinging points as she was hauled up to her unsteady feet.

He grinned widely at her gasp of pain, pushing his nose into the crook of her neck to inhale deeply again. His tongue run a lurid line up her exposed skin, just as Logan had intimated to her back in the motel. "What say we head back to my room?" he nuzzled into her neck, his grasp tightening about her arm. She felt blood leech into her thermals. Using her weaker, but free hand, she punched him on the chin, an uppercut with as much force as she could manage in her position. His mouth snapped shut with a painful sounding clack of teeth and he yanked his head back with a snarl. Her fingers bloomed in pain, it felt like slamming them in a car door. Creed pushed her forward toward the cabin roughly, sending her sprawling into the snow again.

Before she had time to pull herself up he was gripping her left bicep again, digging in five brand new holes into her skin, and yanked her along with him as he headed for the cabin. She dug her feet in. She slapped at his hand. She pulled back. She threw her weight to the left, to the right, went limp in his hold. Nothing worked. They inexorably grew closer and closer to the cabin. She yelled, she cursed, she called him names and threatened him. She called him half the man Logan was. He turned and cuffed her upside the head and she heard nothing but ringing in her ear for several moments.

Creed paused, waiting for her eyes to regain focus, and then pulled her up nose to nose. "I'm not known for havin' a lot of restraint, Terry. If you don't shut that fuckin' mouth, I'll rip out your tongue and then use it to gag you." He gave her a rough shake and then began dragging her again. He chuckled darkly at the resurgence of her panic. "Don't worry, sweet thing. I'll keep you alive until the runt bothers to come outta hidin'. Let you watch, and then we can get back to _our_ fun."

Terry felt the buried fear start to resurface and struggled to contain it, struggled to hold onto the rage and desire to hurt the monster hurting her. But she was supposed to have help. She wasn't supposed to be caught like this. She had to get out of this situation, and she would never win against his brute strength. He held her left wrist immobilized in his and gave no notice to anything she physically did in trying to slow him down from getting to the cabin.

She could not allow herself to be brought inside. Disappearing inside meant disappearing for good, she knew that without a doubt. Confinement meant no escape. The closer they got to the cabin the closer they also got to the cliff at the left side and the faster her pulse raced. They were only thirty yards away. She had to get loose. Now.

She yanked the heavy glove off her right hand using her teeth and dropped it in the snow, and then followed it with the slim neoprene one. The cold hit the skin with a slap. Already in pain, her right hand shook as she fumbled for the gun strapped to her left thigh. Hopping, limping, trying to resist being drug behind the mammoth, it took several tries to get a secure grip on the pistol handle. She gave it a sharp yank to pop it free of the holsters clasp, raised it waveringly at Creeds head, and pulled the trigger.

She missed. Terry had blinked, and her arm dropped, and she took a split second too long to depress the trigger. Just as she'd been trying to train herself _not_ to do. Her right hand just wasn't up to par after breaking it on Logan's jaw.

The bullet hit Creed's shoulder, not his head. It entered in the meaty outside part of his shoulder, and mushroomed out to a tennis ball sized exit wound. His right clavicle exploded out in bloody tissue and bone. Creed howled in agony and his hand released Terry as he staggered forward.

She landed on all fours and immediately pushed herself back up to her knees, left hand up and propping her right as she tried to re-aim. Creed swiped the gun from her fingers with his good arm before she had the cried out in pain as the weapon was wrenched out of her fingers with little disregard to how things bend. She watched the arc of the gun as Creed tossed it away, telling herself to remember where it landed, to move move_ move_ -

Her head exploded in light and pain and she was suddenly staring at the snow again, breathless and in agony. The right side of her face felt like it was on fire, wetness adding to a burn that spread from her hairline and temple to her chin and lips. She got her hands under her chest and pushed herself up. Blood pooled on the snow beneath her, dripping steadily off her face, and now the throbbing pain hit in agonizing detail. She was making inarticulate pained sounds, gasps and moans and strangled cries that she was barely aware of. Four blazing lines of fire journeyed across her face, skin split in perfect parallel lines from Creed's claws. His open handed slap with claws extended had her on the ground in more pain than she'd felt before, like he'd tried to flay the skin from her face.

Her body was fighting Creed's clout, fighting the blackness and fighting the pain, pumping her full of adrenalin and the fight or flight response. Flight was winning. She turned her head against the pain in her cheek and looked up at Creed.

He was staring at his shoulder with distaste. He'd ripped open the jacket and shirt below to look at the exit wound. He was helping the healing process, using two fingers, dripping with Terry's blood, to pinch the already healing hole closed. There was movement beneath the skin. He rolled his shoulder angrily, flexing the arm. "Fuckin' hollow points," he muttered. The fragmented bullet would slowly work its way out over time. "Shit's gonna itch fer days."

Black eyes flashed down at Terry. His face clouded over in anger and he reached down for her. "I'm outta fuckin' patience." He dug all ten clawed digits into the front of her parka and hefted her up. She felt three fresh lines of pain scrape across her chest, opened her mouth to cry out, and was suddenly airborne.

She landed ten feet nearer to the cabin on her shoulders and back, slapping into the iced ground with a fresh cry of pain. She skidded a few feet and then rolled roughly to a stop on her side. She was staring sideways at the advancing giant. Adrenalin and fear cleared her vision and forced her body to her hands knees. Her head throbbed, face burned, and she desperately tried to ignore it. She wracked her brain for … for … "No no no no -"

She had nothing. No way to defend herself. Hands, feet, arms, legs, all useless against Creed. Had she only ever been suicidal? Was the idea of revenging David's death really just an elaborate suicide-by-Creed ploy? Had she really thought she could accomplish this? Kill him, before he killed her? Any plan that had even a chance of working had hinged on Logan, and he had deserted her at the first sign of trouble. Now she only had …

The gun. Only seven feet away from her nose, barrel sticking out from the snow. She scrabbled for the life line, pushing herself to unsteady feet and launching herself forward in a clumsy dive. A heavy weight was suddenly dropped down on top of her, covering her, shielding her, effectively trapping her flat against the snow. A screech of metal on metal, _snikt! snikt!_, and a welcoming, familiar growl. She craned her head up.

Logan.


	14. Chapter 14

XIV.

Creed threw his arms wide. "What a surprise!" He claws extended, he dropped to haunches, and he match Logan's low growl with a grin. "And it ain't even yer birthday, runt."

Logan stepped over Terry's body, arms tense at his sides, fists flexing. His chest rumbled, rose and fall with quick but even breaths, and his whole body vibrated with barely restrained energy. Creed had this effect on him, pulling out the animal side, the rage, the anger, everything he worked so hard to keep controlled. It was a take-take relationship Creed had cultivated over many years, forcing Logan to face the urges warring inside him. It always resulted in a blood bath of violence, a bone jarring fight that never ended any different. They both walked away and went their separate ways, until the next time.

Logan had wanted to make sure Terry was alright, that she could get away. He knew she'd never leave, would stick around until she herself was likely dead, but he had been determined to try. But then Creed laughed and gestured him forward, with a crowing, "C'mon, little man. Let's play!" and all coherent thoughts went out the window. He smiled, an animalistic grin that promised pain, and let himself go berserk.

They launched themselves at each other with matching roars, meeting with a clash of metal on claws and claws and skin, rending cloth and flesh and spilling bright, red blood on snow. Logan skewered Creed on his claws, all six blades driven forcefully through Creeds midsection. He felt a crunch and blinding pain as Creed crushed his larynx, and then they threw themselves forcibly apart, took a breath and a second to heal, and met again in the air with renewed vigor.

Terry watched the unfolding fight, frozen in her same position. They were brutal, punches and kicks and swipes and stabs becoming more lethal, bloodier, more violent as the gruesome fight played out. Who seemed on top switched moment to moment. Each would land a horrific wound on the other, only to be knocked flat the next minute by one just as bad. To her, they seemed evenly matched.

Creed was laughing, roaring and taunting, circling Logan and egging on the smaller man. Logan was lost in the haze, face dripping blood, claws more red than silver. A rather brutal swipe left Creed on his knees, struggling to breath through a throat that was barely there any more. Logan took a step back, a brief pause, and the both fists came together as he stepped forward again, moving to drive the claws upward through Creeds jaw and into his skull.

They never made contact. Creed knocked them aside as he surged to his feet, hands stabbing claws first into Logan's sides, a morbid mockery of a hug. His hands sliced through flesh and tissue and tender insides to Logan's middle, and then yanked upward. Creed growled out with the bloodlust, claws catching on Logan's lower adamantium covered ribs and forcing the man up and off his feet with the force of the upsurge. Logan howled in agony, his own attack faltering, hands instead searching for support, trying to lift himself himself off Creed's fists. Creed curled his claws inwards, scraping against metal bone, and Logan's body jerked in response. Laughing as he slowly withdrew one fist from inside Logan's body, Creed lowered down to a knee and dropped Logan to his back. He knelt over Logan, the hand still deep inside the runts body twisting to tightly grasp an unbreakable rib. Logan cried out, body shuddering. He dragged his wide pain filled eyes to Creed's, struggling against the threatening black at the edge of his vision.

Creed looked down at him, face dripping blood, face cracked in a massive grin with blood stained teeth. "Tha's right, runt," he snarled. "Watch me kill you." Creed slowly, menacingly drew back his free hand, fingers spread wide, claws flexing out. Logan's eyes flicked between the impending killing blow and Creed's face.

With the last of his strength, Logan met Creeds fist with his own, impaling the clawed hand with his claws. Creed yowled out, attempting to jerk his hand back, but Logan twisted and yank first, splitting and tearing through muscle and bone. Creed's cry of pain doubled and he rocked back on his heels, his second hand pulling out of Logan's cavity to cradle the broken and torn one. Logan's hand dropped to his side, and his claws _snikt'_d in. His eyes fluttered closed. He heard a crunch of snow and the hammer of a pistol, and then the blackness ate away at the last of the red and overtook him.

Creed turned at the crunch of snow, eyes widening and senses immediately flying into overdrive as his upper body turned at what he now knew what a danger right behind him. The barrel of Terry's gun dropped in front of his face, held steady and unwavering in her good hand. His eyes snapped to hers, and he saw the triumph of success there. The anger, the revenge, the loss and rage and all the other multitude of emotions that had been eating away at her for months. The hammer clicked as her finger squeezed the trigger. Creed roared.

The blast of the gun drowned it out, cut it off into sudden silence. Creeds head snapped back on his neck, his skull exploding, and his body slumped down at Logan's feet. Blood pooled below his ruined head, eyes open and unblinking at the winter sky above him. Terry stepped over his prone body and aimed the gun at his head again. She fired twice more, leaving two more distinct holes in his head, one an inch from the first above his left eye, the other through his left cheek bone. She lowered the gun to his chest, and emptied the magazine, leaving Creed's chest a ruin of blood, muscle and shattered bone.

Terry dropped to her knees, straddling his body. She grasped the empty gun in both hands, turning it to grasp the too hot barrel, and began to pummel Creed's face with the handle. She channeled the hate at the monster below her through her shoulders, arms, down to her fists that were smashing Creed's face into an unrecognizable putty. Yells of rage began to work their way out of her throat, scouring it with the force of her anger. She screamed until she was hoarse, wordless anger punctuating every bone splitting strike.

She was wailing now, rage becoming sorrow, grief expressing itself now in tears and sobs. Months worth of agonized emotions came tumbling out of her, a release of everything she had pent up inside. She hadn't known how to mourn the loss of David, had resorted to anger at his part in his death as something she was more comfortable with. But now she mourned, pouring out her broken heart in wordless wails.

Her hands faltered, hurting, unable to hold the weapon any longer, and it slipped from her grasp to the ground. She slipped with it, caught herself on the snow, hands on either side of Creed's head. She hiccuped and gasped as she choked back the emotion, face to face now with the result of her rage filled actions. She scrambled off his body barely in time, emptying the contents of her stomach into the snow nearby. She vomited until she dry heaved, eyes streaming tears, kneeling there helplessly until she had control enough of her body to crawl away. She sat, pulling her knees up, hanging her head beneath them, body trembling.

She cried, deep, body wracking sobs as, for the first time since his death, she mourned David. Digging hands into the too short hair that Creed had hacked, she grasped at the roots, tugging as she rocked with grief. Finally, her tears eased, sobs hiccuped into silence. Her chest felt empty, yet so very heavy. She was drained, all emotion spent. There was no more rage. No more anger. Loss remained, but it felt … okay. Felt right. It filled her, but now she understood it's presence and was comforted by it, knowing she had finally come to terms with David's death and his killer. She stared sightlessly at the snow between her feet, forcing her breath back into even, shuddering deep body breaths.

She raised her head. The silence was almost deafening. She could only hear herself breathing and the scrape of her boots on the snow as she forced herself up to her feet. Logan and Creed lay several feet away, neither breathing.

No, wait. Logan's chest trembled. She limped over to him, moving in a big arc clear of Creed's body. Logan's eyes were closed and he hadn't moved, but there … the slightest raise and fall of his chest. She felt her pace increase again. Logan was healing, pulling through the incredibly damage Creed had done to his body. Her eyes snapped to Creeds ruined head and body. He didn't look any different, but …

Her body and mind flipped to autopilot, and she moved quickly. If Logan could heal that much damage, then so could Creed. She shouldn't be surprised, Logan had told her as much. But somewhere in the back of her mind, she'd still believed it would be possible to kill him. Three bullets to the head, more to the chest? And then what she'd done to his face? Shouldn't that be enough?

She was muttering out loud, speaking the thoughts to herself. She huffed angrily, stumbling up the three steps to the cabins porch, and then pushing through the front door. She needed a knife, an axe, something sharp. The two room cabin took only a couple minutes to search. She wasn't careful, pulling open drawers and dumping the contents on the floor. A couple forks, a spoon, some pots and one pan. Yanking open cupboards to find they were mostly empty, only a couple cans of food gracing mostly bare shelves. There was a loaf of old bread on the counter, and a stack of beer in one corner. There was no fridge.

"What is this?" she cried, moving from the small kitchen into the adjoining living room. "He doesn't eat? What does he do, how does he survive!" She pulled the cushions off a threadbare love seat, kicked aside a shag rug, and then pulled apart the small bedroom and its furnishing to find nothing of use there either.

It dawned on her, as she stood in the middle of the cabin, turning in a slow circle. His claws. He had no need for knives, for axes, for anything like that. He was a walking weapon. A hand flitted to her scratched face, gingerly touching, pulling away in haste at the acute pain. She had first hand experience in knowing how sharp those claws were. Some part of her told her that he probably ate raw, straight from the bloody deer as he hunted it down out in the forest.

"What use does he have, for anything like this … no knife, no edge, nothing …." She gnawed on her thumb. "How do I cut off his head …"

She limped back outside and back down the three steps to the snow. The bodies hadn't moved. She went around the side of the house, faltering as she rounded the corner and came up to David's bike. She slowly pulled off the tarp, breath catching in her throat, heart feeling like it plummeted to her knees. Seeing it through the binoculars had driven her across the clearing, ignoring Logan's warnings, and right into Creed's claws. She stared at the bike, chest heaving. The unbelievable anger she'd felt at seeing it before was no longer there. Creed was dead - as he could be. She'd killed him, had her revenge, and now she could take the bike back with her.

She put her fingers on a handle, loosely gripped it. "No, that's impossible," she whispered to no one. "He'll come back. You never will. But …" She stroked the leather seat, crisp with cold. She fingered the after-market cruise control David had her install years ago, frowning with thought at the idea that was slowly coming to her. "This can help. Maybe."

She raised her eyes to the shed beyond the bike. "If …"

Pulling open the rickety door, thankful it wasn't locked, Terry peered around inside the dimness. In the corner lay a pile of old, rusted heavy chain. And on the low work table inside, amid old tools and years of dust, the keys to the bike. She grabbed the keys, separated the chain from a pile of rope it was tangled with, and dragged the heavy length outside.

.

Terry couldn't tell if Creed was healing or not, but Logan definitely was. His breathing was still ragged, but it was constant now, and loud, gurgling against fluid either in his lungs or throat. He didn't react to Terry's pokes and prods and whispers, not to the shouting of his name and to "Just wake up, dammit!" so she left him where he was.

Creeds face was still the same mess, his body still prone and cooling, the blood pooled around him dark. Terry stared at him for several minutes, eyes raking over his body, searching for the tiniest sign that he might be healing, that he might wake up before she was done. It took a long conversation with herself before she got the nerve up to touch him again.

She convinced herself he was dead, but was still healing. Logan hadn't technically died, so he was healing faster. He was, technically, still intact, just torn. "But you, Creed, big man, murderer," she spoke aloud as she knelt next to him, "you I did a good number on. Better than you did on Logan. You may start to heal, but not yet. Maybe it's slower, when you actually die first?"

She had a hell of a time pushing him to his side. His torso finally rose with a squelch of oozing blood, gooey strings of it and tissue stretching between his body and the snow. She would have gagged at the sight, had she the ability. She was out of breath as it was, body trembling with the effort it was taking just to get him half rolled to his side, her shoulder dug into his back as she pushed, feet digging through the snow and ice and into the hard ground beneath for purchase.

She looped one end of the heavy chain under his armpit, around his shoulder, looped it about his neck and sagging head, and then pushed it under his body to the other side. She dropped him to his back, took a breather, and repeated the process on the other side.

Getting Creed succinctly trussed up, she went back to the cabin for David's motorcycle. Working through the emotions that threatened when she got on it, she flipped the kickstand, then throttled the bike to life. It took a moment to catch her breath, the unique sound of the Harley engine threatening to undo the pain she was holding on to. It started easily enough, versus the last time she'd been out riding with David. She'd never got around to fixing the starter herself. Paulie did a god job, she noted. Probably on threat of dismemberment.

She rolled slowly out from beside the cabin, tires crunching down over the snow. She rode up next to Creed's head, resisting the perverse urge to roll over his outstretched arm as she did. Slowly, carefully, she lined the bike up straight with Creed's body, then propped it up as she got off, leaving it idling.

She looped the ends of the chain she looped around the handle bars and main chassis. "No padlock. Fuck, didn't think of that."

She ended up using Creed's belt to winch the ends of the chain together. As an afterthought, and for extra security, she liberated Logan of his belt too, and looped it around the chain and chassis as well. Both had absurdly large belt buckles. Creed's, a skull, leered at his disconcertingly, until she wiggled it around so she couldn't see the grinning skull.

Terry once more stared at both bodies, gauging their healing factor. If anything, Creed looked _more_ dead. The amount of blood soaked into the snow beneath him made her think he had maybe bled out, on top of the head wounds. And chest wounds. She toed his hip none too gently with a boot. Kicked him in the thigh for good measure. Nothing, no response.

She kicked Logan in the thigh and got a slight whimper. He was still out, still unresponsive, but his abdomen looked a little better for wear, and he had a lot more color to his face than last she checked.

Getting back on David's motorcycle, she cast one last look at Creed and the chain binding him to the bike. "Alright, Creed. This isn't gonna take off your head itself …" She glanced to her right at the cliff on the other side of the meadow. " … but I'm hoping the fall does."

Terry started off slow, gathering momentum as Creed's body slid easily enough over the snow. His large leather jacket, more a cloak, worked as a sled. She took a large turn off to the left, toward the forest, struggling against against the chain. She completed a large loop despite the too large bike and the chain trying to keep the bike pointed straight, and kicked up to the next gear and increased her speed as she straightened out toward the cliff. She passed Logan's inert body doing maybe thirty, thirty-five.

Still increasing speed, wind picking up her parka hood and streaming tears from her eyes, she lowered her eyes from the approaching cliff to stroke the bike below her. "David," she whispered, voice lost in the wind as soon as the words left her mouth, "I miss you. I love you."

She kicked up to the next gear, flipped on the cruise control, and rolled off the bike while still several yards from the edge of the cliff. She tried to simply fall, tucking her knees into her chest, trying to leave the bike standing up and moving straight. She bounced off the snow and rolled, skidding to a stop on her side. She raised her head, blinking past the sudden pounding in her head and pain in her shoulder and face. The bike wobbled, but the chain helped it stay straight. It leaned slightly to the right, but didn't have time to fall. It drove over the cliff with no decrease in its speed, dragging the comatose body of Victor Creed behind it.

The machine and man disappeared almost immediately from Terry's sight. She clambered to her hands and knees and crawled to the edge, peering over carefully. Halfway down the height of the cliff, the graceful arc of the motorcycle met the rocky edge of the mountain face. Creed bounced, twisting in the air, arms and leg akimbo and looking like a giant, bloody, faceless rag doll. He bounced several more times, always yanked out his arc by the motorcycle's weight.

They disappeared into the tops of the trees far, far below, vanishing from Terry's sight beneath the pine and birch. She watched the trees below for several moments, then lowered her unmarred cheek to the snow, releasing a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. She smiled as she cried.

.

Terry left Logan in the snow where he'd fallen. She set the cans of food from the cabin next to him, and covered him with the blankets from the bed. She found no pencil or paper anywhere in the cabin. She told him thank you, hoped that somehow he heard it, and then she limped away. It was a slow walk back to the pack with the supplies. She retrieved the first aid kit and did what she could for her face and other wounds, more thankful for the aspirin bottle than for the bandages. She emptied the pack of Logan's half of gear, hid his stuff the best she could under the log, and hefted the much lighter bag onto her back. It was even slower going back to the car. It was three days trek, versus the two out, and pure providence that when she finally staggered out of the forest and toward the truck, a local miner was sitting behind her truck in his, taking down the information of what he assumed was a lost hunter to report to the RCMP.

He believed her tale of a cougar attack, even though they were rare this far north. He drove her to the hospital in Whitehorse, didn't ask too many questions, and also believed her when she said she'd come back for the truck, and the motorcycle still in the back.

She never did.

END.


End file.
